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LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

THEIR HISTORY AND THEIR USE 



BY 



HELEN LOUISE COHEN 

Author of The Ballade 



WITH AN ANTHOLOGY OF 

Ballades 
Chants Royal 
Rondels 
Rondeaus 
Triolets 
Villanelles 
Sestinas 
IN ENGLISH VERSE 



asi 



NEW YORK 

HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY 



'?^'''^l 

,0-^^ 



COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY 
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. 

i 



©Ct.A6 98580 



PRINTED IN THE U S A. BY 

THE aUINN a BODEN COMPANY 

BAHWAY. N J 



FEB 28 '23 



To 
MY MOTHER 



The note, I trowe, maked was in Fraunce. 

— Geofrey Chaucer. 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

For permission to use the material reprinted in the anthology 
included in this volume, I must note my specific indebtedness as 
follows : 



Publis/ier 
B. H. Black- 
well 



A at //or 
* Christopher 
Morley 



Book 
T/ie Eighth 
Sin 



Title 
All Lovely 
Things 



Rondel (After 
Charles d'Or- 
leans) 

To R. L. S. 

Twilight 



Burns & Oates, *G. K. Ches- 
Ltd. terton 



Poems 



A Ballade of a 
Book-Reviewer 



A Ballade of 
Suicide 

A Ballade of 

the First Rain 



Catholic 
Standard and 
Times Pub- 
lishing Com- 
pany 



*T. A. Daly Canzoni 



At Home 

Ballade to the 
Women 

Mistletoe and 
Holly 



* Century 
Company 



* Edward 
Anthony 



Merry-Go- 
Roundelays 



Epitaph for 
Deserving 
Lady 



* The asterisk (*) indicates the source of permission, 
vii 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 



Publisher Author Book 

* Chatto and t George Poetical 



Windus 



Ernest 
Cooper 



Macdonald 



♦Arthur 
Compton- 
Rickett 



Constable and * Lady 
Company Margaret 

Sackville 

*Dodd, Mead * Carolyn 
and Com- Wells 

pany 



Works 



Our Poets at 
School 



Selected Poems 



Baubles 



Title 
Two Rondels 

Triolet 

A Roundel 

O Winds that 
Wail 

Ballade of the 
Journey's End 

Ballade of 
Indignation 

Ballade of Wis- 
dom and Folly 

Her Spinning- 
wheel 



* George H. Joyce Kilmer Joyce Kilmer 
Doran Com- 
pany 

* George H. * Christopher The Rocking 
Doran Com- Morley Horse 
pany 



*Doubleday, * Franklin Something 

Page and P. Adams Else Again 
Company 

*Doubleday, * Franklin Weights and 

Page and P. Adams Measures 
Company 



Maiden Medita- 
tion 

Ballade of My 
Lady's Beauty 

Princess Ballade 

For a Birthday 

When Shake- 
speare Laughed 

Such Stuff as 
Dreams 



Ballade of 
Schopenhauer's 
Philosophy 



■f* Permission of the executors. 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 



Publis/ier 


Author 


nook 


Title 


* Doubleday, 


* Franklin 


Weights and 


Villanelle, With 


Page and 


P. Adams 


Measures 


Stevenson's 


Company 






Assistance 


* Doubleday, 


♦Rudyard 


Seven Seas 


Sestina of the 


Page and 
Company, 
and 


Kipling 




Tramp-Royal 


♦A. P. Watt & 








Son 








♦Doubleday, 


* Richard 


The Junk- 


Ballade Against 


Page and 


Le Gallienne 


Man 


the Enemies of 


Company 






France (Fran- 
cois Villon) 

Ballade of Old 
Laughter 

Ballade of the 
Hanging Gar- 
dens of Baby- 
lon 

Ballade of the 

Things That 
Remain 

Ballade of the 
Unchanging 
Beauty 


* Doubleday, 


*Don 


Dreams and 


Chant of the 


Page and 
Company 


Marquis 


Dust 


Changing 
Hours 

'King Pandion, 
He Is Dead' 

The Rondeau 

The Triolet 



A CKNOWLEDGMENTS 



Publisher Author 

* Doubleday, * Don 

Page and Marquis 
Company 



Book Title 

The Old Soak Chant Royal of 

and Hail and the Dejected 

Farewell Dipsomaniac 



*E. P. Dutton Austin Dobson Collected 
& Company Poems 



A Ballad of 
Heroes 

A Ballad to 
Queen 
Elizabeth 

After Watteau 

A Greeting 

"A Voice in the 
Scented Night" 

"Farewell, 
Renown" 

For a Copy of 
Theocritus 

In After Days 

"O Fons 
Bandusiae" 

On a Fan that 
Belonged to 
the Marquise 
de Pompadour 

On a Nankin 
Plate 



"O Navis" 
"Persicos Odi" 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 



Publisher Author 
*E. P. Dutton Austin Dobson 
& Company 


Bcok 
Collected 
Poems 


Title 
Rose-Leaves 

The Ballad of 
Prose and 
Rhyme 

The Ballad of 
Imitation 

The Ballad of 
the Thrush 

The Dance of 
Death 

The Prodigals 

The Wanderer 

To Daffodils 

"Vitas 
Hinnuleo" 

"When 
Burbadge 
Played" 

"When Finis 
Comes" 

"When I Saw 
You Last, 
Rose" 

"With Pipe and 
Flute" 


*E. P. Dutton *Burges 
& Company Johnson 


Youngsters 


Ballade of the 
Little Things 
That Count 



Xll 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 



Publisher 


Author 


Book 


Title 


* Harcourt, 
Brace and 
Company 


*T. A. Daly 


McAroni 
Ballads 


Ballade of the 
Tempting 
Book 


* Harcourt, 
Brace and 
Company 


* Edwin 
Meade 
Robinson 


Piping and 
Panning 


Ballade of a 
Backslider 


* Harcourt, 
Brace and 
Company 


* Louis 
Untermeyer 


Heavens 


Ballade 
Triolet 


* Harcourt, 
Brace and 
Company 


* Louis 
Untermeyer 


Including 
Horace 


A Burlesque 
Rondo 

A Complacent 
Rondeau 
Redouble 

Lugubrious 
Villanelle of 
Platitudes 


Harper & 
Brothers 


*Burges 
Johnson 


Bashful 
Ballads 


A Rondeau of 
Remorse 


William 
Heineman 


* Edmund 
Gosse 


Collected 
Poems 


Fortunate Love 

Sestina 

The Ballad of 
Dead Cities 

Theodore de 
Banville 

Villanelle 


* Henry Holt 
and Com- 
pany 


*Sir Owen 
Seaman 


A Harvest of 
Chaff 


To Austin Dob 
son. After 
Himself. 
(Rondeau of 
Villon) 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 



Publis/ier 
* Henry Holt 
and Com- 
pany 



* Houghton 
Mifflin 
Company 

* Houghton 
Mifflin 
Company 



C. Kegan, 
Paul & Co. 



Author 
* Louis 
Untermeyer 



Book 
— and. Other 
Poets 



♦John Drink- Poems 
water 1908-1919 



Title 

Austin Dobson 
Recites a 
Ballade by 
Way of Retort 

Nocturne 

A Passionate 
Aesthete to His 
Love. Andrew 
Lang and 
Oscar Wilde 
Turn a Nur- 
sery Rhyme 
into a Rondeau 
Redouble 

The Poet Be- 
trayed. Hein- 
rich Heine and 
Clinton Scol- 
lard Construct 
a Rondeau 

Roundels of the 
Year 



Frank 
Dempster 
Sherman 



* Edmund 
Gosse 



The Poems of "Awake, 
Frank Demp- Awake!" 
ster Sherman 

To Austin 
Dobson 

New Poems Rondeau 

Rondel (After 
Anyte of 
Tegea) 

The Praise of 
Dionysus 



Villanelle 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 



PublhJier 
C. Kegan, 
Paul & Co. 

* Alfred A. 
Knopf 

* Alfred A. 
Knopf 



* Alfred A. 
Knopf 

John Lane 



*John Lane 
Company 
(Dodd, 
Mead and 
Company) 



John Lane 
(Dodd, 
Mead and 
Company) 

* John Lane 
(Dodd, 
Mead and 
Company) 

*John Lane 
Company 
(Dodd, 
Mead and 
Company) 



Author 
* A. Mary F. 
Robinson 

* Witter 
Bynner 



Book Title 

A Handftd of A Ballad of 
Honeysuckle Heroes 



*A. P. 
bert 



Her- 



Young 
Harvard 

The Bomber 
Gipsy 



'The Loves of 
Every Day' 

Ballade of 
Incipient 
Lunacy 



B. L. Taylor 



* Anthony C. 
Deane 



Ernest 
Dowson 



The So-Called Ballade of the 
Human Race Oubliette 



New Rhymes 
for Old 



Contributed by 
Mr. Andrew 
Lang 



The Poems of Rondeau 

Ernest Dow- „.,, ,, r 
Villanelle of 

son . , 

Acheron 

Villanelle of 
His Lady's 
Treasures 

Villanelle of 
Marguerites 

Villanelle of 
the Poet's 
Road 



* Richard English Poems The Destined 

Le Gallienne Maid: A 

Prayer 



E. A. Mackin 
tosh 



Margaret L. 
Woods 



A Highland 
Regiment 



Collected 
Poems 



To Catullus 



A Ballade of 
the Night 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 



Publis/ier 



Life 



Author 
♦Arthur 
Guiterman 



Book Title 

Apology 

Ballade of 
Caution 

Parable 



* Little, 
Brown and 
Company 



* Little, 
Brown and 
Company 



D. Lothrop 
and Com- 
pany 



Arlo Bates Berries of the In Thy Clear 



Louise 
Chandler 
Moulton 



* Clinton 
Scollard 



Briar 



Poems and 
Sonnets 



With Reed 
and Lyre 



Macmillan & 
Co. 



The Manas 
Press 



♦Arthur Reed Poems 
Ropes 



t Adelaide 
Crapsey 



Verse 



Eyes 

Might Love Be 
Bought 

If Love Could 
Last 

In Winter 

Thistle-Down 

Farewell, Fare- 
well, Old Year 

For Me the 
Blithe Ballade 

Love, Why So 
Long Away 

Where Are the 
Ships of 
Tyre? 

Ballade of a 
Garden 

From Theodore 
de Banville 

Song 



t Permission of Claude Bragdon, literary executor. 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 



Publisher 


Author 


Book 


Title 


Robert M. 
McBride & 
Co. 


* James 
Branch 
Cabell 


From the Hid- 
den Way 


Arcadians Con- 
fer in Exile 








Fancies in 
Filigree 

Foot-Note for 
Idyls 

Grave Gallantry 

Ronsard Re- 
voices a 
Truism 

The Conqueror 
Passes 

The Hoidens 

Villon Quits 
France 


Robert M. 
McBride & 
Co. 


*James 
Branch 
Cabell 


Cords of 
Vanity 


Story of the 
Flowery 
Kingdom 


David McKay 


*T. A. Daly 


Madrigali 


A Ballade of 
Brides 


David McKay 


* Edwin 
Meade 
Robinson 


Mere 
Melodies 


Ballade a 
Double 
Refrain 

Ballade of 
Easter Dawn 

In Vislonshire 


Thomas Bird 
Mosher 


* Clinton 
ScoUard 


Lyrics from a 
Library 


Alas, For the 
Fleet Wings of 
Time 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 



Publisher 


Author 


Book 


Title 


David Nutt 


♦John Drink- 
water 


Poems of Love 
and Death 


Earth Love 


Basil 

Montagu 
Pickering 


* Robert 
Bridges 


Poems 


Rondeau 
Rondeau 
Triolet 
Triolet 


Privately 
Printed 


*Brander 
Matthews 


Fugitives 
from Justice 


A Ballade of 
Midsummer 

An American 
Girl 

Les Morts Vont 
Vite 

Rain and Shine 

Sub Rosa 

The Ballade of 
Adaptation 

The Old and 

the New 



Puck's 
Annual 



♦Brander 
Matthews 



August 

The Ballade of 
Fact and 
Fiction 



*G. P. Put- 
nam's Sons 



John McCrae In Flanders 
Fields 



In Flanders 
Fields 



G. P. Put- 
nam's Sons 



♦Clinton 
Scollard 



Pictures in 
Song 



A Snowflake in 
May 



A CKNOWLEDGMENTS 



Publisher 


Author 


Book 


Title 


G. P. Put- 


* Clinton 


Pictures in 


At Peep of 


nam's Sons 


Scollard 


Song 


Dawn 

Ballade of Dead 
Poets 








Cupid and the 
Shepherd 

King Boreas 

The Prayer of 
Dryope 

Upon the Stair 
I See My Lady 
Stand 

Villanelle to 
Helen 

Villanelle to the 
Daffodil 

Vis Erotis 


The Reilly 


tB. L. Taylor 


A Line-o'- 


A Ballade of 


and Britton 




Verse or Tivo 


Irresolution 


Company 






A Ballade of 
Spring's 
Unrest 

Ballade of 
Death and 
Time 

Ballade of the 
Pipesmoke 
Carry 



t Permission of Mrs. B. L. Taylor. 



A CKNOWLEDGMENTS 



XIX 



Publisher 
Sampson, 
Low, 

Marston and 
Company 

♦Charles 
Scribner's 
Sons 



Author 
♦Annie 
Matheson 



Henry Cuyler 
Bunner 



Book 
Lo've^s Music 
and Other 
Poems 



Title 
Rondeau 



The Poems of A Pitcher of 
H. C. Bunner Mignonette 



' 




« 


Les Morts Vont 
Vite 

O Honey of 
Hymettus Hill 


* Charles 
Scribner's 
Sons 


Eugene Field 


Songs and 
Other Verse 


Ballade of 
Women I Love 


♦ Charles 

Scribner's 
Sons 


Andrew Lang 


Ballades and 
Verses Vain 


Ballade of Dead 
Cities 

Ballade of Dead 
Ladies (After 
Villon) 

Ballade of Old 
Plays 

Ballade of 
Primitive Man 

Ballade to 
Theocritus, In 
Winter 


* Charles 
Scribner's 
Sons 


♦Edwin 
Arlington 
Robinson 


Children of 
the Night 


Ballade by the 
Fire 

Ballade of 
Broken Flutes 

The House on 
the Hill 



XX 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 



Publisher Author Book Title 

♦Charles Sidney Colvin The Letters of Far Have You 

Scribner's Robert Louis Come, My 

Sons Stevenson Lady, From 

the Town 

We'll Walk the 
Woods No 
More 



* Charles 
Scribner's 
Sons 


Graham 
Balfour 


The Life of 
Robert Louis 
Stevenson 


Since I Am 
Sworn to Live 
My Life 


Small, May- 
nard & 
Company 


* Gelett 
Burgess 


A Gage 
Youth 


of 


Ballade of Fog 
in the Canon 

Ballade of the 
Cognoscenti 

Chant Royal of 
California 

Chant Royal of 
the True 
Romance 

Rondeau: Oh, in 
My Dreams I 
Flew 

A Daughter of 
the North 

Rondel of 
Perfect 
Friendship 

Sestina of 
Youth and 
Age 


* Frederick A. 
Stokes and 
Brother 


Walter 
Learned 


Between 
Times 




In Explanation 



Publisher 
* T/ie 

Spectator 

T. Fisher 
Unvvin 

White, Stokes 
and Allen 



A CKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Author Book 

R. L. Megroz 



*A. Mary F. An Italian 
Robinson Garden 



* Samuel 
Minturn 
Peck 



*Yale Univer- 
sity Press 


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Wilson 
Baker 


Yale Univer- 
sity Press 


* Brian 
Hooker 



* Edward 

Anthony 



f Henry 
Cuyler 
Bunner 



Cap and Bells 



Blue Smoke 



Poems 



Title 

A Villanelle of 
Love 

Pulvis et 
Umbra 

Among My 
Books 

'Before the 
Dawn' 

Beyond the 
Night 

The Pixies 

Under the Rose 

Rondel for 
September 



Ballade of 
Farewell 

Ballade of the 
Dreamland 
Rose 

Ballade of 
Dottiness 

He Collected 
His Thoughts 

An April Fool 



Behold the 
Deeds ! 



t Permission of Mrs. H. C. Bunner. 



xxn 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 



Publisher 



Author 
t Henry 
Cuyler 
Bunner 



Book 



* Patrick 
Chalmers 



Title 

On Newport 
Beach 

Ready for the 
Ride 

Saint Valentine 

That New 
Year's Call 

The Ballade of 
the Summer 
Boarder 

Ballade of 
August 

Ballade of Cry- 
ing- for the 
Moon 

Ballade of the 
Forest in 
Summer 



♦Edmund 
Gosse 



Triolet, After 
Catullus 



♦Robert 
Grant 



Rondeaux of 
Cities 



♦Arthur 
Guiterman 



Ballade of 
Dime Novels 



♦Richard 
Le Gallienne 



A Ballade of 
Old Sweet- 
hearts 

With Pipe a-nd 
Book 



t Permission of Mrs. H. C. Bunner. 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Publisher Author Book 

* George 
Moore 



* Christopher 
Morley 



* Nate 
Salsbury and 
Newman 
Levy 

* Clinton 
Scollard 



* Rowland 
Thirlmere 



Title 
Rondels 

The Ballade of 
Lovelace 

Ballade of 
Books 
Unbought 

Ballade of the 
Lost Refrain 

Ballade of the 
Ancient 
Wheeze 



Alone in 
Arcady 

A Ballade of 
Midsummer 

My Dead Dogs 



I am glad to acknowledge a more personal debt to Edmund 
Gosse, to whose interest in this project of mine and to whose 
generous encouragement I owe much. My gratitude is due in 
large measure also to Brander Matthews, Clinton Scollard, Louis 
Untermeyer, Christopher Morley, and Edward Anthony for 
many friendly and practical suggestions. In conclusion, it gives 
me the greatest possible pleasure heartily to thank Miss Helen 
Hopkins Crandell, who has helped me read the proofs and com- 
pile the index H. L. C. 



New York, 1 August, 1922. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Acknowledgments 

LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



PAGE 

vii 



Introduction 

Enumeration of the Forms 
Character of the Ballade 
Character of the Rondeau 
Their Roots in the Past 
Refrain Poetry 
Structure of Dance Songs 
Refrain Fragments 



II 



Development of the Ballade 
History of the Word Ballade 
Provencal Balada . 
The Ballette .... 
Earliest Ballades 
The Development of the Ballade in the Puy 
The Vogue of the Ballade .... 



8 

9 

9 

10 

13 



III 

The Ballade in France from the End of the 
Fourteenth to the Middle of the Seven- 
teenth Century 14 

Guillaume de Machault 14 

Eustache Deschamps . . . . . . IS 

Jean Froissart 15 

Christine de Pisan ........ IS 

Charles d'Orleans 16 

XXV 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Francois Villon 

Grands Rhetoriqueiirs 

Clement Marot 

Treatises on Poetry 

The Pleiade . 

The Salons 

Vincent Voiture 

Complications of the Ballade 

Ballades in Dialogue 

Ballades on Religious Subjects 

The Ubi Sunt Motive 

Proverb Ballades 

Fable Ballades 

Courtly Love . 

Ballade Sequen-ces 

Satirical Ballades 

Historical Ballades 



FACE 

16 
17 
17 
18 
18 
18 
19 
19 
22 
2+ 
26 
27 
28 
29 
30 
32 
33 



IV 



Ballades in the Drama 



33 



The Ballade in the Treatises on Poetry . . 36 
The Arts de Seconde Rhetorique from 1392-1673 . 36 
The Reference to the Ballade in Moliere . . . 36 



VI 



The Middle English Ballade 
Chaucer ..... 
His French Sources 



Lydgate 



38 
38 
42 
45 



VII 



The Chant Royal 47 

Deschamps 47 

Clement Marot 47 

The Forms in the Poetics 49 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



VIII 

The Rondeau in France 
Origin 
Varieties 
Deschamps 
Christine de Pisan 
Charles d'Orleans 
Francois Villon 
Standardization of the Rondeau 
The Rondeau in the Drama 
Clement Marot 
Vincent Voiture 

The Exile of the Rondeau from 
Benserade .... 
Anthony Hamilton 
Alfred de Musset . 



the Puy 



PAGE 

50 
50 
52 
52 
54 
56 
56 
57 
58 
58 
59 
60 
61 
61 
61 



IX 



The Rondeau Redouble 



62 



The Triolet .... 
Its Use as a Political Weapon 
Sieur de Saint-Amant . 

Ranchin 

Patrick Carey 



63 
63 
63 

6+ 
64 



XI 



The Rondeau in England 66 

Middle English Roundel 66 

Chaucer 66 

His Relations with French Poets 67 

Hoccleve 69 

Lydgate 69 

Wyatt 70 

Charles Cotton 71 

The RoUiad 71 



xxvni 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



XII 

PAGE 

The Villanelle 73 

Jean Passerat 73 

XIII 

The Sestina , . 74 

Arnaut Daniel .74 

Pontus de Tyaid 75 

Barnabc Barnes 75 

Comte de Gramoa'^ 77 



XIV 



The Revival of the Forms in the Nineteenth 

Century 

The Forms in Nineteenth-Century France 

Sain^e-Beuve and the Ballade 

Theodore de Banville .... 

Glatigny, Tailhade, Bergerat and Rostand 

The Re-introduction of the Forms into England 

The Part Played by Gosse, Dobson and Lang 

Latter Day Lyrics ..... 

Swinburne's Partisanship 

Stevenson's Interest .... 

Gleeson White's Ballades and Rondeaus 

Oscar Wilde's Reactions 

The Forms in America .... 

Brander Matthews .... 

H. C. Bunner 



Rule of Thumb for the Construction of the Forms 
Contents of the Anthology 



78 
78 
78 
79 
80 
81 
81 
83 
86 
89 
89 
90 
90 
90 
90 

92 
97 



THE ANTHOLOGY 95 

Ballades 115 

Ballades a Double Refrain 253 

Double Ballades 263 

Chants Royal 275 

Rondels 301 

Rondeaus 323 



TABLE OF CONTENTS xxix 

FACE 

Roundels 373 

RoNDEAUx Redoubles 387 

Triolets 395 

Villanelles 415 

Sestinas 445 

Parodies and Burlesques 463 

Adaptations 489 

Index of Titles in the Anthology 497 

Index of First Lines . .511 

Refrains of Ballades and Chants Royal . . . .523 



LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 
THEIR HISTORY AND USE 



INTRODUCTION 

Those who make a practice of reading poetry, even in 
a desultory way, are likely to be able to identify at 
least one fixed verse form. That a sonnet has four- 
teen lines is a matter of common knowledge to many 
people, even though they may ignore its elaborate rhyme 
system. The sonnet, coming originally from Italy, 
is the most frequent of all fixed verse forms in English, 
but the ballade and the rondeau have in the last fifty 
years become increasingly familiar. The poems that 
belong to what might be called the ballade and the ron- 
deau families, and the lyric that is known as a villanelle, 
originated in France, the sestina in Provence. To the 
ballade family belong the ballade itself, the chant royal, 
the ballade a double refrain, and the double ballade. 
Of the rondeau family, the triolet is the earliest an- 
cestor known, and from it have developed in more or 
less chronological order the rondel, the rondeau, and 
the rondeau redouble. All of these forms are char- 
acterized by a refrain, a group of lines, a single line, 
or a phrase, recurring at regular intervals. The vil- 
lanelle, likewise, which belongs to a much later literary 
generation, is a refrain poem. The sestina is built 
up, also, on the principle of repetition in the verse pat- 
tern, but in the case of the Provengal form it is a matter 
of the repetition of single words in an intricate scheme, 
rather than of the recurrence of an easily recognized 
refrain. 

3 



4- LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

The reader with a taste for poetry who is interested 
also in the drama, remembering Rostand's play of 
Cyrano de BergeraCy may recall that Cyrano fights a 
duel, at one point in the action, with the foppish and 
foolish Vicomte de Valvert, who has assailed Cyrano's 
ears with the contemptuous epithet of poet, and that 
Cyrano responds by admitting, forsooth, that he is a 
poet, but that he is also a fighter and that in order to 
uphold both of his claims he will engage the Vicomte 
in a duel, the while he times his sword thrusts to an 
impromptu ballade; and how Cyrano pleasingly suggests 
that the Vicomte does not know what a ballade is, any- 
way, but that a ballade in truth is composed of three 
stanzas of eight lines and an envoy of four, and 
that it is necessary for Cyrano to take great care in 
choosing the rhymes in advance, because no new rhymes 
can be introduced after the three appearing in the first 
stanza have been settled upon, and that the words which 
he announces, amusingly enough, for the refrain of his 
impromptu ballade, are, "At the last line of the envoy 
I shall break through your guard and pink you," or, 
as the line runs in French, "Qu'a la fin de I'envoy je 
touche." 

John McCrae's In Flanders Fields, the most fre- 
quently quoted and widely known of all the poems pro- 
duced during the Great War, is a rondeau. The fea- 
tures of the rondeau were once enumerated by the sev- 
enteenth century poet Voiture in the form itself, and 
it is this poem which Austin Dobson has imitated in the 
following lines: 



You bid me try, blue eyes, to write 

A rondeau. What! — forthwith — to-night? 

Reflect. Some skill I have, 'tis true; 

But thirteen lines — and rhymed on two — 
*'Refrain," as well. Ah, hapless plight! 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 5 

Still, there are five lines — ranged aright. 
These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright 
My easy Muse. They did till you — 
You bid me try! 

This makes them nine. The port's in sight} 

'Tis all because your eyes are bright! 
Now, just a pair to end with 'oo' — 
When maids command, what can't we do? 

Behold! the rondeau — tasteful, light — 
You bid me try! 

It is quite possible for the apprentice in poetry, after 
consulting a handbook of poetics or a treatise on the 
mechanics of French or English verse, to use the ballade 
and the rondeau, which have become poetic patterns for 
both French and English versifiers, as mere metrical 
exercises. The veiyjngidity of the rules, that prescribe 
their structure makes them attractive alike to poet and 
poetaster. But these forms are, after all, most signifi- 
cant to the student of literary history, be he poet or 
critic, to whom the group of French fixed verse forms 
suggest the high romance and glamorous enchantment of 
a colorful and picturesque state of society. 

In the literature of the Middle Ages, the poet fre- 
quently represented himself as rapt from consciousness 
by a vision of other worlds and of events, past and 
future. Dante, to name the most illustrious example, 
employed his vision to interpret the universe. If the 
author of the most casual and commonplace experi- 
ments in the ballade or rondeau should, in the fashion of 
the Middle Ages, conceive himself as beholding in a 
dream the fair past of these forms, the vision might out- 
line itself in this summary fashion: Before his eyes, 
turned back to medieval France, would tower the gray 
battlements of a castle rising from green fields — "an 
outpost of winter" in a world of spring — arched over 
by a deep blue sky, outlined against a background of 
fragrant fruit trees in blossom, the rough walls echoing 



6 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

to the sound of bird song mingling with the music of 
viol and lute. And this setting might be peopled, still 
in the dream, by multicolored groups of men and women, 
kindled by spring magic to engage once more in the 
games and rites of the season. And these ceremonies 
would assume the guise of dances, and every time, as 
the same evolution in the pattern of the dance repeated 
itself, would come the same strain of music and the 
same phrase of song. But a vision of this sort, after 
all, would not go to the root of the matter. The 
dreamer might well be rudely roused from his picture 
world by the rumbling of a heavy truck, or the bleating 
echo of an automobile horn, before he had had a 
chance, like the central figure in the Div'me Comedy^ 
to evolve a cosmos, or, smaller enterprise, to penetrate 
in his dream, the origins of refrain poetry, in general, 
or the connection of fixed verse forms such as the bal- 
lade and the rondeau with the spring rites of the early 
folk of France. 

The beginnings of refrain poetry is an interesting 
subject for speculation. By and large, it is true that the 
refrain in the literature of any language goes back to 
a far earlier stage of civilization than is represented 
by the most hoary of written records. Tha, refrain, 
like so many persistent survivals in modern life and 
literature, is a relic of a folk still applying primitive 
methods to agriculture and industry, still under the spell 
of a primitive religion. The medieval ladies and gen- 
tlemen, emerging in the poet's vision from their gray 
castle on to the greensward to circle about in the spring 
sunshine, are by many stages removed from the state 
of society in which the simple folk of a countryside 
assembled at crossroads or market place to make the best 
possible terms at the beginning of summer, with the 
gods of life and fertility. The choral song of these 
assemblies is the very earliest form of all poetry. If we 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 7 

judge from the analogy of other primitive peoples, it 
is very certain that sophisticated and artistic poetic forms, 
like the ballade and the rondel, which employ a regular 
refrain, are in the direct line of a long descent from 
choral folk-songs, in which the people of the village 
cooperated with an accomplished leader in raising the 
dance-song which accompanied their movements. 

The primitive dance-song was probably composed of 
single lines of text alternating with the refrain. In 
course of time the number of lines was in all likelihood 
increased, and one or more of them made to rhyme 
with the refrain. This process went on, no doubt, 
because verses that went hand in hand with the dance 
would naturally be adapted to the music. The repeti- 
tion of a favorite tune would compel those supplying 
the words to furnish successive line groups necessarily 
alike in structure. To provide variety, the refrain was 
gradually introduced into the stanza itself, but at first 
there were no rules governing either the form of the 
refrain or its place in the stanza. Only the exigencies 
of the rhyme in any way affected its position. The 
fragments of dance-songs that are left are not older 
than the thirteenth century. While they reflect the man- 
ner of the old popular dance-songs of the peasants, it 
is certainly true that in the form in which we know 
them, the form given them by courtly poets, the trou- 
Ycres, the form that was made to accompany the dance 
in the halls of great nobles, they were aristocratic and 
not popular. In the extant refrains, recognized as frag- 
ments of an older poetry, the allusions to the dance are 
innumerable. The oldest text to contain such refrains 
is Guillaiime de Dolcy written between 1210 and 1215, 
an aristocratic romance describing seigneurial celebra- 
tions. This romance is interspersed with lyric frag- 
ments. Similar lyric fragments came to serve as re- 
frains in the balletes^ to be referred to later. 



8 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

II 

DEVELOPMENT OF THE BALLADE 

The word ballade^ often spelled balade in the Middle 
Ages, was derived from the Provencal term balada. 
The balada was itself an artistic and not a folk dance- 
song. In Provence the term was, in general, used to 
describe almost any kind of artistic dance-song, irre- 
spective of form, and was not applied exclusively to 
any single kind. The best known balada is the one 
which begins "A I'entrada del terns clar," and belongs 
to the middle of the thirteenth century. Its first stanza, 
here quoted, illustrates a stage in the development of the 
stanza of an artistic dance-song similar, probably, to that 
which the ballade underwent. The stanza is here 
arranged to indicate the lines sung by the leader and the 
parts in which the chorus joined: 



The Soloist 


The Chorus 


A I'entrada del terns clar 


Eya! 


Per joia recomengar 


Eya! 


E per jelos irritar 


Eya! 


Vol la regina mostrar 




Qu'el es si amorosa 





Alavi', alavia, jelos, jelos 

Laissaz nos 

Laissaz nos 

Ballar entre nos, entre nos 



With the return of fair weather, runs the song, the 
queen of the festival, that she may savor joy once more 
and arouse jealousy, vaunts her love. "Out of my 
way, out of my way, jealous creatures," she cries; "let 
us carry on the dance and dance and dance by our- 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 9 

selves." These words may well have lent themselves 
to dramatic illustration. 

The old French analogue of the balada was called 
hallctey a compromise, probably, between balada and 
the French ballet^ a diminutive of bal, meaning dance. 
These balletcs, also artistic dance-songs composed be- 
fore the middle of the thirteenth century, were, some 
of them, three-stanza poems with refrains, but they 
presented the additional feature of identical rhymes run- 
ning through all three stanzas. They incorporated, as 
has been said, refrains which, copied from those of 
traditional poetry, had become the stock-in-trade of the 
trouveres. At least one hundred and eight of these 
balletes are contained in a single manuscript which is, 
as a matter of fact, the only place where the word has 
been discovered. The surviving balletes^ like the sur- 
viving examples of the balada^ are not, in reality, popular 
poetry. Though there are other and longer songs in the 
thirteenth century with uniform rhyme schemes through- 
out, there seems every reason to believe that the ballade 
took its three stanzas with common rhymes and refrains, 
from the ballete. 

The earliest ballades are found, often with the music 
to which they were sung, in the romances of the late 
thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, and in the 
works of Jehannot de Lescurel, a little-krrown poet of 
not later than the middle of the fourteenth century. 
These early ballades are without the envoy which later 
became a regular feature of the fixed form and fre- 
quently have refrains consisting of several lines. The 
reduction of the refrain to one line came about grad- 
ually. As early as 1339 in a poem mourning the death 
of William, a count of Hainault, which is called Li 
Regret Guillaume, there are thirty ballades, all of which 
have a single-line refrain. Five show seven-syllable 
lines; thirteen, eight-syllable lines; one, nine-syllable 



10 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

lines; and eleven used the ten-syllable line. Both the 
frequent use of the ten-syllable line and the single-line 
refrain show that the writer, Jehan de la Mote, belongs 
decidedly to the generation of Deschamps. It was 
Deschamps who, before dying in the first decade of the 
fifteenth century, composed about twelve hundred bal- 
lades, the greater number of which showed the one-line 
refrain. 

In Li Regret Guillaume, the hero, who is a trouvere, 
is represented as hastening to a fuy (Pamour in order to 
submit a love song. It was indeed in these very fuys 
cP amour and in the earlier religious fuySy both poetic^ 
guilds of the thirteenth century and later, that the bal- 
lade of three stanzas with common rhymes and a re- 
frain, came to be diversified and complicated in line 
structure and rhyme. In the fuySy too, the envoy, which 
had hitherto been a feature of several kinds of songs, 
became attached to the ballade, so that, after the opening 
of the fourteenth century, a ballade, whether composed 
in a fuy or not, almost inevitably contained a conven- 
tional address to the Prince in the first line of the envoy. 
These same -puys saw the development of the chant royal, 
and of other forms with envoy. 

The history of the word fui or fuy is uncertain. It 
has been derived from the Latin fodium, meaning "ele- 
vation," and in this sense has been supposed to refer 
to the platform on which the officials of the concourse 
sat. Other critics have derived the word from the 
name of the town in Velay. Some of the supporters 
of this latter theory believe that pilgrims from every 
part of France spread the fame of the Virgin of Le 
Puy in Velay until numerous religious societies named 
in her honor sprang up in northern France. Others hold 
that a literary society actually existed in the town of 
Le Puy which was the model for similar societies in 
the North. Or it is possible to consider the more usual 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 11 

meaning of the Latin fodium, namely mountain, and 
recall the allegory of Muses residing on a remote peak. 
This theory supposes that the term fuy, signifying moun- 
tain, represented to religious and secular poets the heights 
to which they aspired to raise the subject which they 
were treating. As early as 1051, there was authorized 
a confrerie of minstrels at the Sainte-Trinite de Fecamp 
in Normandy. According to their charter, the purpose 
of their association was masses, alms, vigils, and prayers. 
Yearly on St. Martin's Day they walked in a procession 
with the monks. At a later date fuys are known to have 
existed in Valenciennes, Arras, Rouen, Caen, Amiens, 
Abbeville, Dieppe, Douai, Cambray, Evreu, Lille, 
Bethune, and London. 

All the fuys of the Middle Ages were originally re- 
ligious in character. Their foundation was usually at- 
tributed to clerks who had had miraculous visions of 
the Virgin. Gradually these religious fraternities 
evolved into literary societies, chambers of rhetoric, and 
academies, with only a faint coloring of their religious 
purpose left. The "confrerie de Notre-Dame des 
Ardents" at Arras claimed to go back to the Virgin's 
gift of a healing candle to two minstrels during a pest 
in 1 105. Early in the thirteenth century, so the account 
runs, a religious guild was founded at Arras in memory 
of this miracle. The statutes of the society express its 
purpose to save the "ardans qui ardoisent du fu d'enfer," 
"those brands burning in the fires of hell." Every mem- 
ber was to attend the meetings held three times a year, 
to pay dues, to succor his comrades in poverty, to follow 
them to the grave, and to pay a forfeit if any of these 
duties was neglected. In this society, which never lost 
its original religious character, the members classified as 
trouveres, the professional poets, were held first in dig- 
nity. In this fuy at Arras, the president of the associa- 
tion was called "Prince," and to him, as representing 



12 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

the whole corporation, the envoys of poems, composed 
before and after the vogue of the ballade, were fre- 
quently addressed. This office was probably elective, and 
would be held only by a rich man, because a "Prince" 
was expected to pay the expenses of any dramatic enter- 
prises, to fee the clergy who officiated at ceremonies, 
and to entertain generously. The brotherhood of the 
fuy founded in London at the close of the thirteenth 
century or at the beginning of the fourteenth century, 
was, of course, modeled on these French confreries. 

The English society received from the city great privi- 
leges in connection with the Chapel of St. Mary near 
Guildhall, which was built toward the close of Edward 
I's reign. The society was religious, convivial, and lit- 
erary. Its convivial aspects, feasts and processions, seem 
most prominent,.^ut masses and almsgiving and a yearly 
literary contest also received attention. On this occa- 
sion a crown was awarded to the composer of the 
best chancoun reale^ probably chant royal. Search of 
promising manuscript collections has failed to reveal 
any of the poems presented to the English fuy. It is 
not unlikely, however, that both the ballade and the chant 
royal may have figured in its latest contests, if not in 
English, perhaps in French. The sessions of this fuy 
seem to have ceased after the fourteenth century. 

The last important contribution to the structure of the 
ballade was thus the envoy, addressed or dedicated to 
the Prince, which, in the course of poetical contests, 
was added in the fuys in the late fourteenth century. 
Thereafter, chambers of rhetoric and individual poets 
might vary the length of the line, contrive elaborate 
rhyme ornaments, or adapt the ballade to express various 
ideas and perform many functions, but, with the addi- 
tion of the envoy, the form was fixed in its essential 
features. 

The ballade took roughly about four centuries to 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 13 

develop from an indeterminate dance-song to a fixed 
verse form. The structure of the ballade stanza was 
complete by the fourteenth century. We get an idea 
of what the various stages in the development were 
from the balnda and the ballete. To the latter the 
ballade owes probably its three stanzas with uniform 
rhyme scheme and refrain. Other probable contributions 
to the form of the ballade are to be found in the 
chansonniersy the song collections of the thirteenth cen- 
tury, which contain poems with identical rhymes run- 
ning through a number of stanzas; there were, too, espe- 
cially in multi-stanza poems composed for presentation 
in the fuys, envoys in which trouveres, judges, and other 
notabilities were addressed by name. In the late thir- 
teenth century, three-stanza refrain poems, with the same 
rhymes throughout, were written and named baladesy 
and, as the fourteenth century progressed, the refrains 
of many lines that had characterized the ballade, in the 
romances and elsewhere, were generally reduced to one 
line. At length, at the close of the same century, the 
envoy, with its conventional salute to the "Prince," was 
annexed, and the ballade became in France a favorite 
poetic t}'pe for at least two centuries to come. 

The ballade in the late Middle Ages captured the 
taste of France and even had a certain vogue in England. 
In the former country from the end of the fourteenth 
to the beginning of the sixteenth century it attained in- 
credible popularity. Moreover, like its successor in 
favor, the sonnet, it came to be written in more or less 
closely connected sequences. With the importation into 
France in the sixteenth century of ideas derived ulti- 
mately from the literature of classical antiquity, the 
vogue of the ballade grew less pronounced until before 
the nineteenth century it was more or less sporadic in 
French literature. Then Theodore de Banville was the 
instrument' by which it was revived. In England the 



14 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

ballade vanished with the generation after Chaucer, not 
to reappear there until 1873. 

When once the poetic guilds of Northern France had 
codified the requirements for a ballade such as Cyrano 
improvises, the essential features of that form were no 
longer a matter of device. A poet who set out to write 
a ballade had to find a subject which could be treated 
in a kind of verse distinguished for its rigid and repeti- 
tious rhyme scheme. He deliberately limited his range 
of ideas by his decision to conform to elaborate and 
definite restrictions. Technique was distinctly his prob- 
lem. The success of his ballade depended upon his 
abilit)' to submit his inspiration to an inflexible set of 
fixed metrical requirements. If Chaucer, Villon, and 
Swinburne succeeded in producing ballades that are great 
poetry, it is because they found the form uniquely har- 
monious with certain ideas which they wished to express. 



Ill 



THE BALLADE IN FRANCE FROM THE END OF THE 
FOURTEENTH TO THE MIDDLE OF THE SEVEN- 
TEENTH CENTURY 

It would take a long time and much space merely to 
enumerate those who wrote ballades in France from the 
end of the fourteenth to the middle of the seventeenth 
century. But there are certain conspicuous names con- 
nected with the history of the form. 

In Guillaume de Machault's (1300? -13 77) lifetime 
the ballade and the rondel established themselves. He 
is generally considered the founder of the school of 
poetry that devoted its energies to the fixed forms. His 
most interesting work, L'lvre du Voir-dit, a tale told in 
prose and verse of a disappointing love affair that, as 
an old man, he had with the young girl, Peronnelle 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 15 

d'Armentieres, contains many ballades and rondels. His 
writings, like those of Deschamps and Froissart, were 
known to Chaucer, and on all three Chaucer drew 
freely. As John Livingston Lowes has said: "The 
Middle Ages . . . had practically no sense whatever of 
literary property as we conceive it. . . . The works of 
other men, in fact, stood on practically the same foot- 
ing to a writer as the works of God." 

Eustache Deschamps ( 1345? -1405), spoken of gen- 
erally as a disciple of Machault's, not only holds the 
record for the number of ballades composed by any one 
individual, but is also credited with over two hundred 
rondeaus, not to speak of his tireless exertions in the 
composition of longer biographical verse and satire. He 
was the author, too, in 1392, of the earliest Poetics in 
French, UArt de Dicticr et de fere chancons, baladeSy 
virelaisy et rondcaulx. 

Jean Froissart (1338-1404?), like Deschamps and 
Machault, used verse for autobiographical purposes. He 
lived as a boy in Valenciennes where every year there 
was a fete of the fuy d^amour-y and he was often present, 
no doubt, as the contending poets submitted their verses 
to be judged before the court that was in the future 
to crown his own efforts. When he went to the court 
of Edward HI in England, he took with him letters 
of introduction to Queen Philippa. For her court he 
wrote virelays and ballades. Other ballades of his were 
written to be laid at the feet of the lady whom he wor- 
shipped with all the shifts of courtly love, but who be- 
came permanently alienated from him. Froissart's repu- 
tation rests on his Chronicles of the wars of his own 
time, annals of the age of chivalry, rather than on his 
lyric verse. 

Christine de Pisan, woman of letters, was, in spite 
of her name, born in Venice about 1363. She came to 
France as a youngster, married in due time, and at 



16 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

the age of twenty-five was left a penniless widow with 
three children. Thereafter she had to earn her living by 
writing. Besides her serious biographical and philosophi- 
cal works, she is noted for her delicate love verse cast in 
the conventional poetic moulds of the late Middle Ages. 

The most engaging literary figures of the fifteenth 
century are Charles d'Orleans (1391-1465), the father 
of Louis XII, and Francois Villon (1431-1470?), the 
first a member of the royal house, the second a vaga- 
bond. When Charles appeared at Orleans in July, 1460, 
with his daughter Marie, then three years old, Villon 
was released from prison in honor of the occasion and 
wrote a poetic eulogy comparing the little girl to Cas- 
sandra, Echo, Judith, Lucrece and Dido. 

Charles d'Orleans, who spent twenty-five years as a 
prisoner in England after the battle of Agincourt, re- 
turned to France in 1440 and settled at Blois, surround- 
ing himself there with kindred spirits who enjoyed 
matching wits in the composition of ballades and ron- 
deaus. The writings of Charles were not published till 
the eighteenth century. The rondeaus, especially the 
lovely and often translated one, beginning 

Le temps a laissie son manteau 

De vent, de froidure et de pluye 

are works of genius. The conjecture that Villon once 
sojourned at Blois with the royal poet is based on a 
ballade, attributed to Villon, the refrain of which is 
the famous, "I perish of thirst at the fountain brim," 
a paradox which formed the basis of numerous exercises 
in the fixed forms in the little court at Blois. 

Villon, prince of poets. Bachelor of Arts and Master 
of Arts of the University of Paris, spent various periods 
of his lawless life in prison. The pardon granted him 
on one such occasion has been mentioned. At the acces- 
sion of Louis XI he is again one of those benefiting 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 17 

from a proclamation of amnesty. Villon's poetry, espe- 
cially his Tcstamcnty makes the existence of that fer- 
menting underworld that rose to the surface in France 
at the close of the eighteenth century very real. In 
Le Testament (1461?), Villon, as he had in his earlier 
poem Les Lais, hequeaths imaginary satirical legacies 
to his friends. He relates also his wretched plight in 
prison before his release by Louis XI and confesses 
unreservedly spiritual anguish and loneliness as well as 
physical disabilities. Several of Villon's most beautiful 
ballades ornament Le Testament^ among them the Bal- 
lade des Dames du Temps Jadis, and the Ballade four 
sa Mere. He wrote his Ballade des Pendus directly 
after his own very real escape from the gallows. 

The versifiers of the century of Charles d'Orleans 
and Villon continued to use the forms that had been 
bequeathed to them by the medieval fuys and poets. 
But a new school appeared which earned the name of 
grands rhetoriqueurSy "rhetorique" signifying poetry. If 
we understand by decadence the phenomenon of over- 
ornamentation, then these poets, among whom might be 
named Jehan Meschinot, Octavien de Saint-Gelais and 
Jean Marot, were decadents. The tricks of metre and 
decoration which they practised are described in some 
detail below. The impulse to the movement is to be 
discovered in the work of Deschamps and Christine. 

Jean Marot's son, Clement Marot (1495? -1544) was 
brought up in the tradition of his father's school. But 
his expeditions into Italy, his sojourn at the court of 
Ferrara, his contact with the intellectual current of 
the Reformation proved liberating forces. He did write 
some unsavory rondeaus, and a few gracious and beauti- 
ful ballades, tainted neither in style nor subject matter. 
But they were, of course, incidental to his more sub- 
stantial and characteristic literary preoccupations. His 
quarrel with Frangois Sagon is mentioned here because 



18 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

of its significance, noted below, in ballade literature. 
All the notable literary men of the day took a hand 
in the fight and Sagon seems to have gone down, under 
the cumulative abuse of Marot and his supporters. 

Treatises on poetry, called at the time I'arts de seconde 
rhetor'ique, were numerously produced in the fifteenth 
century. They codified the practices of the grands 
rhetoriqueurs and added new intricacies of rhyme and 
metre to the old complications prescribed for the ballade 
and rondeau. With the coming of humanism at the 
outset of the sixteenth century, the reference to the 
forms became infrequent and, if the authors of the vari- 
ous arts of poetry refer to them at all, it is with a 
contemptuous gesture of dismissal. The French poets 
of the Renaissance, like their contemporaries in other 
countries, renewed themselves by their study of the lan- 
guages and literatures of classical antiquity, but they 
were not inclined for all that to dispense with literature 
in the vernacular. One of the leading spirits, Joachim 
du Bellay, composed the Defence et Illustration de la 
Langue Frangaise (1549). Du Bellay belonged to the 
group of poets, seven in number, who are known as the 
Pleiade Jean Passerat, inventor of the villanelle, is 
one of the twenty-odd writers also identified with the 
group. 

The period of salons begins about 1618 under the aus- 
pices of Mme. de Rambouillet in her Hotel de Ram- 
bouillet. Circles like hers where witty conversation and 
the composition of literary trifles were in order, multi- 
plied. In these salons developed the preciosity that 
Moliere was later to satirize under slightly differing 
guises in Les Precieuses Ridicules and Les Femmes 
Savantes. The salons flourished throughout the seven- 
teenth century. One of the latest of the frecieuses was 
Mme. Deshoulieres (1637-1694) who wrote ballades. 
Indeed the forms had a temporary revival. Vincent 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 19 

Voiture (1598-1648), the leading spirit at the Hotel 
de Rambouillet, produced both rondeaus and ballades. 
The English version of this poem of his on the con- 
struction of the rondeau, was given earlier in these 
pages. 

Ma foi, c'est fait de moi, car Isabeau 
M'a conjure de hii faire un rondeau. 
Cela me met en peine extreme 
Quoi! ireize vers, huit en eau, cinq en eme! 
Je lui ferais aussitot un bateau. 

En voila cinq pourtant en un monceau. 
Faisons-en huit en invoquant Brodeau, 
Et puis mettons, par quelque stratageme: 
Ma foi, c'est fait. 

Si je pouvais encor de mon cerveau 
Tirer cinq vers, I'ouvrage serait beau; 
Mais cependant je suis dedans I'onzieme: 
Et si je crois que je fais le douzieme, 
En voila treize ajustcs au niveau. 

Ma foi, c'est fait. 

A ballade written upon his death repeats the refrain: 
"Voiture est mort, adieu la muse antique." After the 
seventeenth century the forms are purely incidental till 
the days of Banville. 

The chief of the forms, the ballade, went through 
many phases in the almost three hundred years from 
Machault to Moliere, who compared it to a faded 
flower. As time went on, not only did it become diver- 
sified, but there accumulated gradually a fund of bal- 
lade ideas, which was steadily drawn on from the days 
of Lescurel and Deschamps down to the time of the 
Plciade. Ballades were occasionally grouped in se- 
quences, and, more commonly still, became a favorite 
ornament of the early religious and secular drama. The 
ballade, likewise, continued to be favored by poets in 
the puysy and also in the more or less informal poetical 



20 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

concourses like those held at Blois, under the auspices 
of Charles d'Orleans. On one such occasion at Blois, 
for instance, as has been mentioned in connection with 
Villon, the paradox, "Je meurs de soif aupres de la 
fontaine," was announced as the refrain for ballades to 
be written in competition. Charles and his eleven poet 
guests tried their hand on ballades based on this idea. 
Then eleven of his friends took up the idea and de- 
veloped it. 

In the fifteenth century, when a number of very dif- 
ferent ideas were finding expression in ballades, there 
was also great variety within the form itself. Many 
things could be done with a type of poetry the only fixed 
features of which were three stanzas, a refrain, the same 
rhyme scheme in every stanza, and, under some cir- 
cumstances, an envoy. By actual count, however, the 
most frequent stanzas were either that of eight lines, 
made up of octosyllabics and rhyming a b a b b c b c,* 
or that of ten lines composed of decasyllabics, rhyming 
ababbccdcd. 

One ballade has been discovered in a late fifteenth- 
century manuscript in which every single word in the 
thirty-two lines begins with a "p." At an early date 
French poets taxed their ingenuity in turning out what 
may well be called freak ballades. Deschamps and 
Christine de Pisan were both guilty of trying to see to 
what strange contortions they might subject this poetic 
form. A Middle English rendering of one of Chris- 
tine's ballades illustrates the device of beginning every 
line with the same word. 

Alone am y and wille to be alone 
Alone withouten plesere or gladnes 
Alone in care to sighe and grone 

* "a" represents the first rhyme of the first stanza; "b," the 
second; thus in Christine's poem on^ = "a"j «£i = "b"} 
ure - "C.» 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 21 

Alone to wayle the deth of my maystres 
Alone which sorow will me neuyr cesse 
Alone y curse the lyf y do endure 
Alone this fayntith me my gret distres 
Alone y lyue an ofcast creature 

Alone am y most wofullest bigoon 
Alone forlost in paynfule wildirnes 
Alone withouten whom to make my mone 
Alone my wrecchid case forto redresse 
Alone thus wandir y in heuynes 
Alone so wo worth myn aventure 
Alone to rage this thynkith me swetnes 
Alone y lyue an ofcast creature 

Alone deth com take me here anoon 
Alone that dost me dure so moche distres 
Alone y lyue my frendis alle ad foon 
Alone to die thus in my lustynes 
Alone most welcome deth to thi rudenes 
Alone that worst kan pete lo mesure 
Alone come on, y bide but thee dowtles 
Alone y lyue an ofcast creature 

Alone of woo y haue take such excesse 
Alone that phisik nys ther me to cure 
Alone y lyue that willith it were lesse 
Alone y lyue an ofcast creature 

Deschamps wrote at least two ballades that he claimed 
in the title might be read in eight different ways. A 
mere tour de force of a different variety is that ballade 
of Deschamps' on the Bible, Proper names have cer- 
tainly at times contributed to the effect of great poetry, 
but a succession of stanzas composed almost exclusively 
of the titles of the books of the Bible proves to be both 
dull and discordant. 

Jchan Meschinot's four ballades on love must have 
been very difficult to put together. The four deal sev- 
erally with "amour sodale," "amour vertueuse," "amour 
f olle," and "amour viceuse." Each is composed of three 



22 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

stanzas of ten-syllable lines and an envoy of six lines. 
After the fourth syllable of every line there is an abrupt 
break. The first half of every line in all four ballades 
associates some action or quality with love, as, for ex- 
ample, "Amour loue," "Amour blame," and in all four 
ballades the portions of lines preceding the break. are 
identical. The second part of the line, however, changes 
in every ballade according to the special character of the 
love that is being described. Thus the first half of the 
first line of all four ballades reads "Amour commande," 
"Love enjoins"; in the poem dedicated to the love which 
is friendship, the line concludes with the words "aux 
gens estre loyaux," "friends to be loyal to one another"; 
whereas in the ballade dealing with honest love between 
man and woman, the first line ends with the simple 
command, "aux gens estre parfaits," in other words, 
"both man and wife to be perfect." Acrostic ballades 
were not uncommon. The envoy of Villon's prayer on 
behalf of his mother which spells out his name reads 
thus: 

Fous portastes, Vierge, digne princesse, 
/esus regnant qui n'a ne fin ne cesse. 
ie Tout Puissant prenant, nostre foiblesse, 
iaissa les cieulx et nous vint secourir; 
Offrist ? mort sa tres clere jeunese; 
A'^ostre Seigneur tel est, tel le confesse, 
En ceste foy je vueil vivre et mourir. 

The ballade in dialogue was a popular diversion with 
the French poets of three centuries. It owes some of 
its features to the debat of earlier French poetry, which 
arose, doubtless, from a very simple principle of social 
intercourse. Some such early literary tradition should 
account for the frequent use of dialogue give-and-take 
by ballade writers. At any rate the practice was com- 
mon. Sometimes the speakers divide the line. Some- 
times each speaker is given a complete line, and they 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 23 

alternate. In the Cent BalladcSy a whole ballade is 
more frequently assigned to a single disputant. Chris- 
tine, again, in Le Livrc du Due des Vrais AmanSy an 
English version of which has recently appeared, has a 
ballade in which the characters, a lady and her lover, 
speak in alternating stanzas. An amusing debat situa- 
tion is found in two seventeenth-century ballades by 
Mme. Deshoulieres and M. le Due de Saint Aignan. 
The subject under discussion is, as habitually in the salons 
of the time, love. The lady's refrain is "On n'aime 
plus comme on aimoit jadis," or "Men love no longer 
as they loved of yore," and she wishes that she had lived 
when Amadis was young, but the Duke comes back with 
"Tante j'aime encore comme on aimoit jadis," or "Men 
love yet as they loved in days of yore." A certain type 
of dialogue popular in the Middle Ages has its analogues 
in ballade literature. The older conversations between 
body and soul appear in modified form. Deschamps has 
a ballade consisting of a conversation between the head 
and the body. Villon has a ballade which is a Debate 
betzvcen the Heart and the Body^ the first stanza of 
which 'n Payne's ♦iranslation reads: 

What is't I hear? — 'Tis I, thy heart, 'tis I 
That hold but by a thread for frailty, 

I have nor force nor substance, all drained dry, 
Since thee thus lonely and forlorn I see. 
Like a poor cur, curled up all shiveringly. 

How comes it thus? — Of thine unwise liesse. — 

What irks it thee? / suffer the distress. 

Leave me in peace. — Why? — I will cast about. — 

When will that be? — When I'm past childishness. — 
I say no more. — And I can do without. 

Thus the form of the ballade became more and more 
diversified. Nevertheless, whatever external features 
were added to its structure, the original three stanzas, 
identical rhymes, and refrain remained unaltered. The 



24 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

fund of ideas from which those who used the form 
drew was fairly limited. 

The shaping of the ballade in the fuy must have 
meant its early adaptation to religious themes. It is 
not surprising, therefore, to find French poets during 
three centuries piously inclined to make this fixed form 
do service for prayer and praise. There is Villon's 
prayer made to the Virgin at the request of his mother, 
given here in Payne's translation: 

Lady of Heaven, Reg-ent of the earth, 

Empress of all the infernal marshes fell. 

Receive me, Thy poor Christian, 'spite my dearth, 
In the fair midst of Thine elect to dwell: 
Albeit my lack of grace I know full wellj 

For that Thy grace, my Lady and my Queen, 

Aboundeth more than all my misdemean, 
Withouten which no soul of all that sigh 

l^Iay merit Heaven. 'Tis sooth I say, for e'en 
In this belief I will to live and die. 

Say to Thy Son I am His, — that by His birth 
And death my sins be all redeemable, — 

As Mary of Egypt's dole He changed to mirth 
And eke Theophilus', to whom befell 
Quittance of Thee, albeit (So men tell) 

To the foul fiend he had contracted been. 

Assoilzie me, that I may have no teen. 
Maid, that without breach of virginity 

Didst bear our Lord that in the Host is seen. 
In this belief I will to live and die. 

A poor old wife I am, and little worth: 

Nothing I know, nor letter aye could spell: 

Where is the church to worship I fare forth, 

I see Heaven limned, with harps and lutes, and Hell, 
Where damned folk seethe in fire unquenchable. 

One doth me fear, the other joy serene: 

Grant I may have the joy, O Virgin clean. 
To whom all sinners lift their hands on high. 

Made whole in faith through Thee their go-between. 
In this belief I will to live and die. 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 25 



Thou didst conceive, Princess most bright of sheen, 
Jesus the Lord, that hath nor end nor mean. 
Almighty, that, departing Heaven's demesne 

To succour us, put on our frailty, 
Offering to death His sweet of youth and green: 
Such as He is, our Lord He is, I ween ! 

In this belief I will to live and die. 

Jean Marot wrote a monologue in which the Virgin 
spoke ballade-wise on the day of her assumption. In a 
ballade written by his son Clement the familiar parallel 
is drawn between Christ and the pelican who "pour les 
siens se tue," who "gives His life that His own may re- 
ceive life." There are ballades, too, that treat of the 
ever popular seven sins. Closely allied to the religious 
ballades in tone and in general character are those in 
which the various aspects of death are treated. 

Probably the most famous ballade ever written is 
Villon's Des Dames du Temps Jad'is. 

Dictes moy ou, n'en quel pays, 

Est Flora, la belle Rommaine, 

Archipiada, ne ThaVs, 

Qui fut sa cousine germaine; 

Echo, parlant quand bruyt on maine 

Dessus riviere ou sus cstan. 

Qui beaulte ot trop plus q-u'humainc. 

Mais ou sent les neiges d'antan? 

Ou est la tres sage Hellois, 
Pour qui fut chastrie et puis moyne, 
Pierre Esbaillart a Saint Denis? 
Pour son amour ot cest essoyne. 
Semblablement ou est la royne 
Qui commanda que Buridan 
Fust gecte en ung sac en Saine? 
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? 

La royne blanche comme lis, 
Qui chantoit a voix de serainej 



26 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Berte au grant pie, Bietris, AlHsj 
Haremburgis qui tint le Maine, 
Et Jehanne, la bonne Lorraine 
Qu'Englois brulerent a Rouan; 
Ou sont ilz, ou, Vierge souvraine? 
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? 



Prince, n'enquerez de sepmaine 
Ou elles sont, ne de cest an, 
Que ce reffrain ne vous remaine: 
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? 

This refrain illustrates once more how traditional for- 
mulas are transformed into new and glorious poetry 
by a great poet. The ubt sunt formula, first used in 
sermons and didactic poems, was soon transferred to 
hymns and songs, and thence spread from Latin versions 
to the vernacular. St. Bernard inquired: 

Die ubi Salomon, olim tarn nobilis? 
Vel ubi Samson est, dux invincibilis? 
Vel pulcher Absalon, vultu mirabilis? 
Vel dulcis Jonathas, multum amabilis? 

At least three of Deschamps' poems, a chant royal and 
two ballades, are on the ubi sunt theme. 

Sainte-Beuve makes the point that Villon's real con- 
tribution to great poetry lies not so much in the con- 
ventional questioning as in the poignant refrain, "Mais 
ou sont les neiges d'antan?" But it has been shown 
that even these magic words are only a variant of a 
communal refrain. In a beautiful Middle English 
predecessor of the great ballade, the Luve Ron, in re- 
sponse to a "maid of Christ" who asks for a love song, 
Thomas de Hales cites, as so many warnings, the mis- 
erable fates of those who gave themselves to love and 
recommends Christ as the only worthy lover. Though 
these lines lack plainly the concentrated lyric sweetness 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 27 

of Villon's poem, the most perfect of all ballades, they 
show, after all, how conventional was questioning of 
this sort. An analogue of Villon's ballade is this stanza 
from the Luve Ron: 

Hwer is Paris and Heleyne, 

That weren so bryght and feyre on bleo? 

Amadas, Tristram and Dideyne, 

Yseude and alle theo? 

Ector with his scharpe meyne, 

And Cesar riche of worldes feo? 

Heo beoth iglyden vt of the reyne, 

So the scheft is of tlie cleo. 



Villon wrote two other ballades employing the ubi sunt 
motive, neither of which is a masterpiece. 

Ballades, adaptable to the sober purposes of religion 
and death, lent themselves easily to gnomic uses. More- 
over, the proverb as a line unit frequently offered a 
quick solution to what might otherwise have been a diffi- 
cult rhyme problem. Proverbs were used singly or 
they were grouped to form a stanza. But the stringing 
together of any considerable number of proverbs was 
likely to produce patter rather than poetry. That prov- 
erbs should have been introduced into ballades was to 
be expected. In the early years of the existence of the 
ballade, there was, indeed, the medieval affection for 
sententious wisdom to account for the frequent appear- 
ance of the proverb, and in the fifteenth and sixteenth 
centuries, there was the obsession in favor of rhetorical 
ornament to explain the presence of the proverb in so 
many places. Proverbs are common in the ballades of 
Deschamps and also in those by his contemporaries, 
Christine de Pisan and Froissart. The ballade consist- 
ing of nothing but proverbs became popular after Villon, 
his Ballades des Proverbes, here given in the Payne ver- 
sion, tempting other poets: 



28 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Goats scratch until they spoil their bed: 
Pitcher to well too oft we send: 

The iron's heated till it's red 

And hammered till in twain it rend: 
The tree grows as the twig we bend: 

Men journey till they disappear 

Even from the memory of a friend: 

We shout out "Noel" till it's here. 

Some mock until their hearts do bleed: 

Some are so frank that they offend: 
Some waste until they come to need : 

A promised gift is ill to spend: 

Some love God till from church they trend: 
Wind shifts until to North it veer: 

Till forced to borrow do we lend: 
We shout out "Noel" till it's here. 

Dogs fawn on us till them we feed : 
Song's sung until by heart it's kenned: 

Fruit's kept until it rot to seed: 

The leagured place falls in the end: 
Folk linger till the occasion wend: 

Haste oft throws all things out of gear: 
One clips until the grasp's o'erstrained: 

We shout out "Noel" till it's here. 



Prince, fools live so long that they mend: 

They go so far that they draw near: 
They're cozened till they apprehend: 

We shout out "Noel" till it's here. 

The poetic tendency to moralize, which led a writer 
of ballades often to lean on proverbs, also caused him 
to turn to fable literature and to the fabrication of elab- 
orate animal allegory. Deschamps wrote a number of 
such fable-ballades. He chose subjects like Le Paysan 
et le Serfenty Le Chat et les Souris and Le Reynard et 
le Corbeau. The ballade of Le Lion et les Fourmis 
is political allegory in fable guise. The ants in this case 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 29 

are the thrifty Flemings. Mellin de Saint-Gelays, son 
of Octavien, used the fable-ballade in behalf of Clement 
Marot and against Francois Sagon, who had attacked 
Marot, by describing a kite in mid air who swoops down 
and fastens his talons on a sleeping cat. The inoffensive 
cat is Marot; the bird of prey is Sagon. 

One of the favorite diversions of aristocratic society 
in the fifteenth century was the cultivation of courtly 
love, the code of which had been developing since the 
early Middle Ages. The conventions of a lover's con- 
duct were rigidly prescribed, and all well-regulated ardor 
was supposed to find some relief in decorous poetic de- 
votion. The Courts of Love, which were frequently 
held on St. Valentine's day, or on the first of May, fur- 
nished the occasion for love ballades with their set 
phrases and shallow compliments. The ballades of 
Machault, Deschamps, Froissart, and Charles d'Orleans, 
are for the most part expressions of these familiar for- 
mulas of courtly love. So are the ballade sequences pres- 
ently to be discussed; so, for that matter, are nearly all 
the ballades composed in the fifteenth and sixteenth 
centuries. The whole subject of the motives and modes 
of courtly love is involved in ballade literature. The 
allegory of these ballades concerned with courtly love 
became current with the Roman dc la RosCy where ab- 
stractions like Dangler^ Esferance, Nonckaloir, were 
popularized, and where the example of great lovers, too, 
first became a familiar literary resource. 

An Englishman who wrote French poetry, John 
Gower, shows in all his ballades familiarity with the 
subject. Like Charles d'Orleans, who celebrated St. 
Valentine's day in his ballades and rondeaus, Gower in- 
cludes in his Cinkante Balades, presented to Henry IV 
of England on his coronation, two dedicated to the rites 
of the fourteenth of February. Letters in ballade form 
repeat conventional love terms. Gower's Cinkante 



30 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Balades contain three love letters in the usual epistolary 
style of the code. In one case he concludes 

My noble lady, this note's sure to find you, 
If God so wills, I'll follow it post haste, 
These lines perhaps will hopefully remind you 
Sorrow to shun and present joys to taste. 

Some of the earliest ballades were, as has been noted, 
imbedded in romances of considerable length. In the 
fourteenth century and in the fifteenth, too, ballades con- 
tinued to be interspersed in narrative poems. Thus, in 
Froissart's Le Livre du Tresor Amoureux there are one 
hundred and twenty-eight ballades, arranged in three 
groups, two of forty-four and one of forty, all of which 
exhibit a unity of thought and feeling in that their 
theme is "Dames, d'amours et de moralite," or, in other 
words, chivalry. The chief interest, however, for the 
medieval reader lay primarily, we may suppose, in the 
narrative into which the ballades were introduced, and 
not in the ballades themselves. Other poems, too, con- 
taining series of ballades, might be cited, such as 
Machault's Le L'lvre du Voir-Dit, Christine de Pisan's 
Le Livre du Due des Vrais AmanSy and Le Prisonnier 
Desconforte. 

At least three sequences of one hundred ballades and 
one group of fifty, unconnected with other verse or prose, 
were composed at the height of the enthusiasm for the 
form. There were the Cinkante BaladeSy by John 
Gower in French verse, two centuries by "Chris- 
tine desolee," and a third century by Jean le Seneschal. 
In all these the familiar situations and sentiments of 
courtly love figured repeatedly. 

In a series by Christine de Pisan, the Cent BalladeSy 
the thought connection throughout is much less close than 
it would be in a characteristic sonnet sequence of the 
Elizabethans. Her Cent Ballades, unlike the sonnet 
sequences, are on a variety of subjects and seem to have 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 31 

been composed at long intervals. For example, the first 
twenty ballades express Christine's personal loss in the 
death of her husband, while others treat the general 
subject of love — knowledge of which has been gained 
vicariously, Christine would have us believe. Gower's 
Cinkante Balades belong approximately to the same 
period as Christine's Cent Ballades. Like hers, they 
are for the most part impersonal. Various favorite 
ballade themes are treated. Love is his chief business, 
however, and love according to the mode of the age. 

In contrast, Les Cent Ballades of Jean le Seneschal 
have considerable plot. In his own person, he begins 
the story: One day, when, as a young man, he is on 
the road between Angers and les Ponts-de-Ce, he meets 
a knight. This older cavalier, seeing that the young 
man is distracted and sad, immediately comes to the con- 
clusion that he is in love, and as a man of experience, 
he lays down certain rules of conduct in matters of love 
and of chivalry; he expounds the doctrines of love and 
of war and shows how real happiness in love lies in 
loyalty. This advice, given in the first fifty ballades, 
the pupil promises to follow. Almost six months later, 
he is put to the test. On the banks of the Loire, in the 
midst of a brilliant company, one of the ladies takes 
him aside and taxes him with his ideal of faith in love. 
She praises the charms of fickleness, and prophesies that 
his absurd obstinacy will in the end lead to his utter 
boredom. Finally, dismayed by his attitude, she sug- 
gests recourse to judges. He intimates ironically that 
the case is merely between treachery in love and true 
faith. But the lady insists that he states the question 
unfairly and that true happiness in love lies not in ex- 
alting constancy too highly or in condemning fickleness 
too vociferously. She will admit no disloyalty to any 
one lover in a multiplicity of lovers. The three judges 
by whom the debate is to be settled hold with the young 



32 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

man that loyalty in love brings the only true happiness, 
whereupon all four resolve to make a book out of this 
joint adventure. Thus Jean's hundred ballades tell the 
story. 

An interesting supplement to the work of Jean le 
Seneschal is the little series of thirteen ballades, the an- 
swers of as many amateurs, who undertook one side or 
the other of the controversy. Two of the poets support 
the claims of fickleness; seven champion constancy, and 
four take an amused, slightly skeptical tone with no 
reference to the real issue. 

Satire, in the centuries in which the ballade flourished, 
was largely directed against the frailties of the Church 
and of the court, and against the frivolities and follies 
of the ladies. In ballade literature, the clergy rarely, 
the aristocracy more often, and the feminine sex most 
often, are the object of attack. The jargon of the 
lowest grades of Paris society was used by Villon and 
by many other poets in their gross attacks on gross abuses. 
The satirical "sotte" ballade, nearly always expressed in 
terms of unspeakable indecency, assailed institutions and 
individuals indiscriminately. Most of these are unprint- 
able, and, because of their dialect, incomprehensible to 
all but special students of jargon or thieves' patter. 

Many of the satires against women are written in the 
language of the gutter, but some are entrusted to the 
ordinary vernacular. Deschamps has a balade "contre les 
femmes" with the refrain, "II n'est chose que femme ne 
consomme." Villon spares no vicious detail in the Bal- 
lade de la Belle Heaulmiere aux Filles de Jole. And 
in his Ballade de Bonne Doctrine a Ceux de Mauvaise 
Viey his refrain is: "Tout aux tauernes & aux filles," 
"taverns and wenches every whit." The king and the 
court were naturally in a position to be treated more 
tenderly by the satirist, though in the twenty-five ballades 
by Meschinot and Chastellain, appended to Les Lunettes 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 33 

dr Princes of Meschinot, Louis XI is the object of 
the satire. 

French history also finds expression in ballades. Both 
important and unimportant events, royal marriages, 
treaties, campaigns, and military heroes, furnished at 
various times the subject matter of this fixed verse form. 
Great historical poetry was not produced. In the wealth 
of ballades furnished by Deschamps we find one on 
the birth of Charles VI and of Louis d'Orleans, his 
brother; another, on the death of Bertrand du Guesclin 
(1380), carries the refrain, "Plourez, plourez, flour de 
chevalerie," "Weep, weep, O flower of chivalry"; still 
another, on the peace concluded with England in 1394, 
uses for refrain, "There will never be peace till Calais 
is given up." Deschamps' ballade "sur le marriage 
de Richard, roi d'Angleterre, et d'Isabeau de France" 
overlooks the sad disparity between the child of eight 
and the royal widower. A well-known historical bal- 
lade has for its subject the state of France after the 
battle of Agincourt (1415). Naturally the rivalry be- 
tween Louis XI and Charles the Bold found ballade 
expression, too. In the Chron'iques de Louis XII by 
Jean d'Auton are several ballades dealing with the failure 
of the King's campaign in Naples (1502-1504). In 
1520, the gorgeous meeting of Francis I and Henry 
VIII on the Field of the Cloth of Gold was celebrated 
in a ballade by Clement Marot. Later Cardinal Maza- 
rin was, as might be expected, the object at times of 
congratulation, at times of execration in ballade litera- 
ture. 

IV 

BALLADES IN THE DRAMA 

Sibilet, the sixteenth-century critic, wrote in 1548 
that ballades and rondeaus were to be found in farce. 



34 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

morality, and mystery "as thick as pieces of meat in a 
fricasee!" His statement is richly illustrated by the 
ballades in the fifteenth- and sixteenth-century mysteries 
that have come down to us. Ballades, like the triolets 
and the rondels more frequently employed in the mys- 
teries, were used as adornments of the text. They were, 
as the subject matter of the mysteries would suggest, 
for the most part prayers to the deity and supplications 
to Mary for her intercession. A ballade prayer in the 
Mystere de Sainte Bar be (fifteenth century) is spoken 
by Origines and three companions. A ballade without 
envoy in which the stanzas are similarly distributed 
among several characters, the Magi, in this case, is to 
be found, too, in Le Mystere de la Passion d'Jrnoul 
Greban. 

Occasionally the ballade figured as a prologue to the 
mystery. The prologue, whatever its form might be, 
was spoken by the author, by a member of the com- 
pany, or by some priest not a meniber of the company. 
The purpose of such a prologue was to fix the attention 
of the audience, to give them some notion of the plot, 
or to express the author's humility. The prologue in 
the fifteenth-century Le Mart'ire de Saint Adrien is 
spoken by a priest. Another ballade prologue is spoken 
by an actor at the opening of the mystery of Notre 
Dame de Puy by Claude Doleson. A noteworthy bal- 
lade prologue, a fifteenth -century piece of "diablerie," 
introduces Andre de la Vigne's St. Martin and is spoken 
by Lucifer. 

These lyric passages in the mysteries were, in general, 
sung, or, at any rate, were declaimed to the accompani- 
ment of music. In view of the intimate connection of 
the ballade formula with the fuyy another circumstance 
in the presentation of the mysteries is here worth not- 
ing: namely, the accepted fact that, in the fourteenth 
century, the Miracles de Nostre Dame were acted at 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 35 

some puy, the location of which has not been deter- 
mined. 

Ballades continued to be written from the fourteenth 
century to the seventeenth. By far the greater number 
of them are insignificant as literature. They exhibit the 
sort of ingenuity that is inconsistent with real poetry. 
The tricks of the ballade writers, their acrostics, their 
word plays, made the form a kind of intellectual game. 
The satirical ones are remarkable for bold personalities. 
Francois Villon alone in these three centuries produced 
ballades, one is tempted to say a ballade, of great beauty. 

These poems have for us, therefore, a social rather 
than a literary interest. In them for three hundred 
years the dominant ideas of medieval society were per- 
petuated. The current conceptions of love, death, and 
religion, the hand-to-mouth wisdom of proverbs, satire 
mordant and mild, the chronicle of marching events, 
aristocratic politics, — all these subjects were accepted 
as within the proper scope of the ballade. Of particular 
interest, too, is its presence in the religious drama. So 
many of the mysteries are connected with fuys that it is 
not surprising to find the ballade, itself in part a product 
of the fuy, figuring in a number of the sacred plays. 
The ballade was thus considered equally appropriate for 
the expression of sacred or profane emotions. 



THE BALLADE IN THE TREATISES ON POETRY 

The fluctuating esteem in which the ballade and the 
rondeau were held is reflected in the rhetorico-poetical 
treatises of which the poets and critics of France were so 
prolific in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. These 
treatises not only recorded the progress of the forms 
and the practice of the poets who had used them, but in 



36 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

some cases suggested elaborate innovations or novel com- 
plications of a type already sufficiently fixed and intricate. 
The handbooks of poetics that multiplied in these years 
are very generally looked upon as a symptom of deca- 
dence. But, in the case of the ballade, it must be under- 
stood that the refinements and the intricacies suggested 
by pedants were not necessarily accepted generally by 
the poets. Rhymsters early distorted the form in accord- 
ance with the prescriptions of theorists; but Villon, a 
man of some education, writing after at least four of 
cHe treatises had appeared, transcended their theory and 
produced the most beautiful ballades in literature. 

Deschamps' UArt de Dictier (1392) contains the 
earliest theoretical discussion of the ballade. Its neglect 
in France followed the invasion of ideas from Renais- 
sance Italy and the rise of the Pleiade. Boileau's pass- 
ing reference to it in his Art Poet'tque (1675), shows 
how lightly the form had come to be held at the end of 
the sixteenth century. The casual mention of the bal- 
lade by this critic indicates the verdict of the French 
classical age in regard to this form. Between 1392 and 
1673 there were thirty of such treatises in circulation, 
the first being Deschamps' UArt de Dictier and the latest 
Boileau's UArt Poettque. In Le Dejfence et Illustra- 
tion de la Langue Frangaise (1549), which marked Du 
Bellay as a Renaissance man, vowed to the building up 
of a native style formed by classically educated taste, he 
inveighs against ballades, rondeaus, chants royal and 
other such "condiments," as he calls them, as an evidence 
of the ignorance of his predecessors. 

Before Boileau, the classical despot, disposes of the 
ballade as a form that owes its popularity chiefly to 
tricks of rhyme, Moliere in Les Femmes Savantes, 
played (1672) the year before Boileau's set of rules 
appeared, embodies in Trissotin's fatal phrase the timely 
verdict of the seventeenth-century man of letters in 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 37 

regard to the ballade. Vadius and Trissotin are bandy- 
ing compliments: 

Trissotin 
Nothing could be more charming than your little rondeaus. 

Vadius 
Nay, but your madrigals are the soul of wit. 

Trissotin 
Ballades after all, though, seem to be your specialty. 

Vadius 
Nobody surpasses you when it comes to filling up lines. 

They continue to outdo each other; then: 

Vadius 
The first thing you know, people will be erecting statues to 
you. Now there's this ballade of mine, I'd like to read it 
to you . . . 

Trissotin 
Just a minute, have you seen a certain little sonnet of mine 
on the Princess Uranie who fell ill of a fever? 

Vadius admits having heard the sonnet, but declares it 
to be trash of the worst kind. At this they fall to 
quarreling. Vadius tries to propitiate Trissotin in order 
that the ballade may be read aloud: 

Vadius 
Oh, it was my fault, I was distracted, or perhaps it was 
badly read. But to change the subject, here is my ballade! 
Trissotin 
To my taste the ballade is nothing but a faded rose; it's 
completely out of date; it fairly reeks of the past. 
Vadius 
Nevertheless the ballade still appeals to many people. 

Trissotin 
If you mean pedants, yes. 

Trissotin is speaking for his age when he says: "La 
ballade a mon goiit est une chose fade." 



38 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

VI 

THE MIDDLE ENGLISH BALLADE 

In all probability, it will never be explained to our 
entire satisfaction why the ballade, which had met with 
so much favor in France and which won its way with 
the greatest Middle English poet, did not achieve greater 
popularity with Chaucer's contemporaries and successors. 
In England, the fifteenth-century man of letters seems 
to have been susceptible to a variety of French conven- 
tions, but only occasionally did he feel impelled to use 
the form that in France had become a favorite means 
of literary expression. France, indeed, had seen the 
production of ballades by the thousands, whereas the out- 
put in England does not exceed two hundred. A com- 
plete list of the Middle English ballades might contain 
only some two hundred and twenty items, but even these 
items would certainly include questionable specimens of 
the type. To Chaucer himself are attributed with con-*^ 
siderable certainty sixteen genuine ballades.^i Lydgate in- 
troduced the form into the Temple ~bf Glas, the 
Legend of Seynt Margarete^ and the Fall of Princes. 
He also wrote ballades independent of his longer poems^ 
Hoccleve se^-ms never to have composed a true ballade, 
although the character of his seven-line and eight-line 
stanza shows how familiar he must have been with the 
form. Two Middle English collections of ballades are 
known, namely, the series that, for many years, went 
under the name of Charles d'Orleans, and the translation 
by one Quixley of John Gower's Tra'itie four Essemfler 
les Amants Mar'ietz. A small number of ballades in 
print have, at various times, been attributed to Chaucer, 
or to one or another of his followers. Other ballades, 
anonymous, still unprinted, are probably to be unearthed 
in English and in Scottish libraries. 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 39 

In Middle English the rigor of the PVcnch form is 
relaxed. The ballade is found occasionally, it is true, 
cast in the mould most commonly used in France. For 
example, Lydgate's Flour of Courtesye, with its three 
similar stanzas and envoy of fewer lines than the stanzas, 
its uniform rhyme scheme and refrain, is in form like 
hundreds of French ballades. But many of the Middle 
English poems are three-stanza ballades, with identical 
rhymes and refrains, but without •envoys, thus resem- 
bling the French form before the fay had modified it. 
Thus the ballade in Middle English, as in fourteenth- 
century French, may or may not have an envoy. The 
envoy may be of fewer lines than the stanza or of the 
same number. In the French ballade it is clear that 
there is a considerable variety in line structure, but in 
Middle English, on the contrary, the almost invariable 
line is composed of ten syllables. 

The scribes of the Lydgate manuscripts used the term 
balade most frequently to mark the stanzaic lyric of 
indefinite length, although, as we have seen, this poet 
produced ballades in the stricter sense of the word as 
well. Particularly in the Fall of Princes are there bal- 
lades of seven-line and eight-line stanzas, with and with- 
out envoys. 

In the Prologue to the Fall of Princes y Lydgate wrote: 

This sayd Poete my master in his dayes 
Made and compiled ful many a frensh dittie 
Complants, ballades, roundels, vyrelayes 
Full delectable to heare and to se: 
For vvhiche men should of ryght and equitie, 
Syth he in englysh in making was the best, 
Pray vnto God to geue his soule good rest. 

And with lyrics, wrought in the French fashion, in 
honor of Love, Alcestis credits Chaucer in both versions 
of the prologues to the Legend of Good Women. 



40 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

And many an ympne for your halydayes, 
That highten Balades, Roundels, Virelayes. 

The "Virelayes" have vanished, the "Roundels" survive 
in four specimens only, but sixteen "Balades" are still 
extant. 

Of this number, two are compound ballades, namely, 
Fortune and The Comfleynt of Venus. Fortune com- 
prises really three ballades. The most striking features 
of the poem are its insistence on the adequacy of the 
individual to cope with things; the challenge contained 
in the line, "for fynally. Fortune, I thee defye"; and 
the boast that, "he that hath himself hath suffsaunce." 
One's first instinct is to search old records and accounts 
to discover whether Chaucer did "unlock his heart" here 
with a ballade-key. That he did is unlikely, in view 
of the conventional treatment of Lady Fortune in the 
Divine Comedyjj^ in the Consolation of Philosophy of 
BoethiuSy and in the Roman de la Rose. It was one of 
the conventions of the Middle Ages to dwell on the 
revolutions of Fortune's Wheel. Plainly, in this triple 
ballade, Chaucer was making use of a popular French 
verse form; he was using it, moreover, to incorporate 
ideas derived from the Roman de la Rose^ and from the 
Consolation of Philosophy. The form is fixed and the 
ideas in the main are medieval commonplaces, yet 
Chaucer's dramatic assertion of his valiancy in the face 
of disaster is effective. Chaucer's other triple ballade, 
the Compleynt of VenuSy differs somewhat in form 
from Fortune. Only the envoy is Chaucer's. The bal- 
lades are translations, with trifling alterations, from the 
French. / 

To RoseTuounde is a single ballade. The refrain 
runs, "Though ye to me ne do no daliaunce," and re- 
fers to the aloofness of Rosemounde. The ballade is 
familiar verse in the gayest vein with mock heroic 
touches : 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 41 

Nas never pyk walwed in galauntyne 
As I in love am walwed and y-woundcj 
For which ful ofte I of my-self divyne 
That I am trewe Tristam the secounde. 

Again, in Triithy or the Balade de Bon Conscyly as in the 
case of Fortune y the main source of the poem seems 
to be Boethius. Indeed, in lines 8 and 9, 

Tempest thee nopht al croked to rcdresse, 
In trust of hir that turneth as a bal, 

we have another reference to the medieval conception 
of Fortune's wheel. The refrain, 

And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede, 

was no doubt suggested by, "The truth shall make you 
free" {^Johuy viii, 32). The tone of the Balade de 
Bon Conseyl contrasts strongly with the tone in Fortune. 

That thee is sent, receyve in buxumnesse, 
The wrastling for this worlde axeth a fal, 

is the expression of failure and discouragement; it is 
not the cry of one who would say, 

t was ever a fighter, so — one fight more, 
The best and the last! 

The ideas in Gentilesse, a Moral Balade of Chauctery 
as in the case notably of Fortune, presented themselves 
to Chaucer's mind from the Consolation of Philosofhy 
and from the Roman de la Rose. Chaucer took his 
theory of Gentilcsse from contemporary standards, yet 
his application of the theory is his own. 

In Lak of Stcdfastnesse Chaucer used the French 
form with an animus different from that found in his 
other ballades. In Fortune, in Truth, and in Gentilesse^ 



42 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

he uses the ballade seriously, it is true, but in Lak of 
Stedfastncsse he makes it a means of expressing the 
social confusion and the unrest of his day. The refrain, 
"That al is lost for lak of stedfastncsse/' occurs at 
the end of all the stanzas, but appears as, "And wed 
thy folk agein to stedfastnesse," at the end of the emvoy. 
According to one manuscript, "This balade made Geffrey 
Chauciers the Laureall Poete of Albion and sente it 
to his souerain lorde kynge Richarde the secounde thane 
being in his Castell of Windesore." It is believed to 
have been written in the later years of Richard II's 
reign, when he was outraging the people by his acts and 
policies. If the poem was dispatched to the king at 
this epoch in his activities, the sentiments of the envoy 
were certainly timely^ Chaucer, as has often been re- 
marked, only occasionally reflects the social discontents 
of his day; his outlook on life is plainly not that of 
a professional reformer, but certainly in this ballade 
he pauses to analyze the source of evil in his age. If the 
general idea of the ballade be taken from Boethius, one 
can only say that the old philosopher's Consolation fur- 
nished Chaucer merely with a point of departure. 

The envoy of The Comfleynt of Chaucer to his 
Emfty Purse is usually considered the last piece of writ- 
ing done by Chaucer, for it contains a direct appeal to 
Henry IV, who was accepted by Parliament September 
30, 1399; as a result of the poet's appeal, he was in 
all probability granted an additional forty marks yearly 
on October third or thirteenth of the same year.f' A sim- 
ilar complaint was addressed to the French king, John II, 
by Guillaume de Machault in 1351-6, in short rhymed 
lines, but Chaucer may more likely have been imitating 
a similar ballade appeal made by Eustache Deschamps 
after the death of Charles V of France, and the accession 
of Charles VI, who had promised Deschamps a pension 
but failed to keep his promise. 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 43 

J gainst Woyncn Unconstanty or Newfanglenessey as 
it is also called, uses the refrain, "In stede of blew, thus 
may yc were al grcnc." It is an adaptation of Machault's, 
"Qu'en lieu de bleu, Dame, vous vestez vert." Beside 
this similarity, the French and the English ballade are 
alike in stanza form and in the absence of an envoy. 
But they are dissimilar in tone. Chaucer grimly arraigns 
a lady in the whole-souled fashion so popular in the Mid- 
dle Ages, when satire alternated with adulation, whereas 
Machault's reproaches are without spirit in comparison, 
and his theme is the theatrical havoc wrought in his con- 
stitution by the fickleness of his dame. ' 'T// 
K In 1894 was printed what is generally accepted as a 
genuine Chaucerian ballade. Womanly Noblesse. The 
envoy and each of the three stanzas end differently. 
If this ballade be Chaucer's, he certainly departs widely 
from his usual custom of following closely the fixed 
French form. There is no such thing as transcending 
form if the artistic problem is to restrain the develop- 
ment of the theme by the exigencies of a certain fixed 
type. Chaucer, if it be Chaucer, certainly gained noth- 
ing by the looseness of construction in his poem. To a 
fiftfcenth-century reader it must have been annoying to 
be disappointed of a refrain at the end of every stanza. 
In the Prologue to the Lcgerid of Good Women 
occurs what is probably the best known of Chaucer's 
ballades. ", The ballade appears in both versions of the 
Prologue. In one version, the refrain runs, "Alceste is 
here, that al that may desteyne"; in the other, "My 
lady Cometh, that al this may disteyne." The most 
striking feature of the poem is its use of proper names. 
The French ballade writers, as has been pointed out, 
conventionally introduced these lists, which were in real- 
ity a medieval device, for throwing a glamor of romance 
about the subject. There is a striking resemblance be- 
tween the ballade of Chaucer's here reprinted and that 



44 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

one of Machault's which begins with a reference to 
Absalon and the refrain of which is, "Je voy assez, puis 
que je voy ma dame." 

Hyd, Absolon, thy gilte tresses clere; 
Ester, ley thou thy meknesse all a-doun; 
Hyd, Jonathas, al thy frendly manere; 
Penalopee, and Marcia Catoun, 
Mak of your wyfhod no comparisoun; 
Hyde ye your beautes, Isoude and Eleyne, 
My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne. 

Thy faire body, lat hit nat appere, 

Lavyne; and thou, Lucresse of Rome toun, 

And Polixene, that boghten love so dere, 

And Cleopatre, with al thy passioun, 

Hyde ye your trouthe of love and your renoun; 

And thou, Tisbe, that hast of love swich peyne; 

My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne 

Herro, Dido, Laudomia, alle y-fere. 

And Phyllis, hanging for thy Demophoun, 

And Canace, espyed by thy chere, 

Ysiohile, betraysed with Jasoun, 

Maketh of your trouthe neyther boost ne sounj 

Nor Ypermistre or Adriane, ye tweyne; 

My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne. 

The ballade in the Prologue to the Legend of Good 
Women resembles also in substance, function, and treat- 
ment, a ballade in Froissart's Paradys D^ Amours. These 
ballades of Chaucer we must still assume to be the 
earliest English examples of that verse form, although 
the temptation is strong to suspect the genial members 
of the English fuy of having composed ballades ante- 
dating Chaucer's. He knew the poetic practice of his 
famous French contemporaries. This familiarity is evi- 
denced not only by his own use of the form, but more 
often by his imitation of French ballades in his other 
poems. He wrote his ballades with conscious artifice. 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 45 

although he heeded the form of the French models with 
infinitely less care than Austin Dobson and his followers 
who reintroduced the ballade into English in the nine- 
teenth century. Chaucer plainly was not sufficiently 
attracted to the form to do more than trifle with it. 
Ballades by the thousand were not for him. His bent 
was quite obviously toward narrative rather than lyric 
poetry, and his predilection may have helped to cut short 
the English career of the ballade. 

The ballade in che hands of Chaucer's successors never 
rose above mediocrity. The most telling influence of the 
French ballade, indeed, from the time of Chaucer, was 
on the structure of the English stanza. The popularity 
of the seven-line stanza, rhyming a b a b b c c, and 
of the eight-line stanza, rhyming ababbcbc, in both 
England and Scotland, and the great Spenserian stanza 
itself is due to the repeated use of these stanzaic forms by 
the French ballade writers, to Chaucer's interest in 
these stanzas, to his metrical experiments, and to the 
fidelity of his imitators. Lydgate's ballades outnumber 
Chaucer's, but he is even less bound than Chaucer by 
the French formulas. Lydgate used the ballade, as 
Chaucer is not known to have done, as the conclusion 
or envoy of longer poems. Ballades appear thus in the 
Fnll of PrinccSy and are found fulfilling the same func- 
tion at the conclusion of the Flour of Courtesye, at the 
end of the Serpent of Division^ and again after the 
Legend of Seynt Margarete and the Temfle of Glas. 
Lydgate's other ballades occur as separate lyrics. 

Lydgate's ballades add nothing to his reputation as 
a poet. In only one of them does he follow the form 
•with comparative fidelity, namely, in the envoy of the 
Flour of CourtesyCy and in only one of them, the ballade 
to the Virgin, have we verse of any beauty. The ballades 
that serve as envoys are merely dull and repetitious. A 
study of Lydgate's ballades but emphasizes the con- 



4-6 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

elusion that the ballade never ceased to be an exotic 
in Middle English literature, and that it owes its chief 
importance to its effect on the English stanza. 

The authorship of a number of Middle English bal- 
lades remains to be determined. Among these the most 
important are translations of the poems of Charles 
d'Orleans and of certain other French poets, printed 
for the Roxburge Club in 1827 as the English Poems 
of Charles d'Orleans. It has been conjectured on 
slender evidence that these translations were made by 
William de la Pole, first Duke of Suffolk (1396-1450), 
known to have been a friend of "le doulx seigneur," 
as Villon called Charles d'Orleans. 

The life of the ballade in Middle English is probably 
less than one hundred years, extending as it does from 
the last twenty years of the fourteenth century, when 
Chaucer was making first trials, to not later than the 
seventies of the following century. The courtly makers 
of the reigns of the Early Tudors were not ballade 
writers. There are few names connected with its his- 
tory: of those Chaucer and Lydgate are the chief. 
Chaucer's ballades stand out as superior to all in poetic 
quality, though even their merit is uneven. Lydgate's 
adaptation of the form to the purposes of religion did not 
produce a ballade worthy to be compared to Villon's 
prayer. As for the translations from the French of 
Charles d'Orleans, they retain only in a measure what- 
ever charm is possessed by the originals. That a student 
of fifteenth-century writers finds much that is curious 
rather than beautiful, has long been a commonplace of 
literary criticism. The ballade of that century is no 
exception; it, too, is for the most part curious rather 
than beautiful. The discursiveness of the age, the ten- 
dency then prevalent to compose prolonged verse narra- 
tives, the scarcity of rhyme words in Middle English, — 
all these circumstances were obstacles to the further de- 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 47 

vclopment of the ballade. Though it is probably true 
that the stanzaic structure of both English and Scottish 
poetry was modified by the various types of French bal- 
lade stanzas, the form itself languished in England for 
about three hundred years. After Chaucer, for that 
matter, the ballade was not conspicuously successful until 
the days of Austin Dobson, Edmund Gosse, Swinburne 
and Andrew Lang. 

VII 

THE CHANT ROYAIJ 

A form closely related to the ballade also developed 
in the puy. The outstanding features of the chant royal 
are its five eleven-line stanzas rhyming ababccdd 
e d e, its envoy likewise rhyming d d e d e, and its 
refrain used six times as the last line. The chant royal 
was in every respect a ballade except in the number of 
stanzas and in the fact that the examples that have 
come down to us do not show so wide a variety in stanza 
length. The term royal in the name of a poem seems 
to refer to the fact that it was originally composed for 
rendering before a prince of the fuy. 

Deschamps is one of the earliest to use the chant royal. 
He has left us an example of the ubi sunt variety. He 
goes breathlessly through five stanzas inquiring of the 
whereabouts, among others, of Samson, Hippocrates, 
Plato, Orpheus, Ptolemy, Daedalus, Alexander, Saladin, 
Methuselah, Virgil, Julius CcTsar, Scipio Africanus, King 
Arthur, Godfrey of Bouillon, and spares time even to 
investigate the present location of Judith, Esther, Penel- 
ope and Semiramis, whose place in a stanza is perilously 
close to St. Peter's and St. Paul's. 

Clement Marot stands out as the most finished ver- 
sifier to employ the form. The chants royal of Marot 



48 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

are often allegorical in character, the key to the allegory 
being given in the envoy. Of such a nature is Marot's 
chant royal on the Immaculate Conception written in 
1520. The Christian Chant Royal, here quoted, is 
throughout the length of its five stanzas and envoy a 
sermon on the moral life. The antithesis is drawn be- 
tween human greed for possession and human greed for 
knowledge, and the poet promises that the sinful man 
will perish like straw in the fires of Hell unless man 
strive to be sound alike in soul and body. 

Qui ayme Dieu, son regne et son empire, 

Rien desirer ne doibt qu'L son honneur: 

Et toutesfois I'homme tousiours aspire 

A son bien propre, a son aise, tt bon heur, 

Sans adviser si point contemne ou blesse 

En ses desirs la divine noblesse. 

I.a plus grand'part appete grand avoir: 

La moindre part souhaite grand s^avoir; 

L'autre desire etre exempte de blasme, 

Et l'autre quiert (voulant mieulx se pourvoir) 

Sante au corps et Paradis a I'ame. 

Ces deux souhaitz contraires on peult dire 
Comme la blanche et la noire couleur; 
Car Jesuchrist ne promet par son dire 
Ca bas aux siens qu'ennuy, peine et douleur. 
Et d'autre part (respondez moy) qui est-ce 
Qui sans mourir aux Cieulx aura liesse? 
Nul pour certain. Or fault-il concevoir 
Que mort ne peult si bien nous decevoir 
Que de douleur ne sentions quelque dragme 
Par ainsi semble impossible d'avoir 
Sante au corps et Paradis a I'ame. 

Doulce sante mainte amertume attire, 

Et peine au corps est a I'ame doulceur. 

Les bienheureux qui ont souffert martyre 

De ce nous font tesmoignage tout seur. 

Et si I'homme est quelque temps sans destresse, 

Sa propre cher sera de luy maistresse. 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 49 

Et destruira son aine (a dire voir) 

Si quelque ennuy ne vient ramentevoir 

Le povre humain d'invoquer Dieu, qui I'ame, 

En luy disant: Homme, penses-tu veoir 

Sante au corps et Paradis a I'ame? 

O doncques, Homme en qui sante empire, 

Croy que ton mal d'un plus grand est vainqueur; 

Si tu sentois de tous les maux le pire, 

Tu sentirois Enfer dedans ton cueur. 

Mais Dieu tout bon sentir (sans plus) te laisse 

Tes petis maulx, sachant que ta foiblesse 

Ne pouvant pas ton grand mal percevoir 

Et que aussi tost que de I'appercevoir 

Tu periroys comme paille en la flamme, 

Sans nul espoir de jamais recevoir 

Sante au corps et Paradis a I'ame. 

Certes plutost un bon pere desire 
Son filz blesse que meurdrier, ou jureur: 
Mesmes de verge il le blesse, et descire, 
Affin qu'il n'entre en si lourde fureur. 
Aussi quand Dieu, pere celeste, oppresse 
Ses chers enfans, sa grand'bonte expresse 
Faict lor sur eulx eau de grace pleuvoir; 
Car telle peine a leur bien veult prevoir 
A ce qu'enfer en fin ne les enflamme, 
Leur reservant (oultre I'humain devoir) 
Sante au corps et Paradis a Pame. 



Prince Royal, quand Dieu par son povoir 
Fera les Cieulx et la Terre mouvoir, 
Et que les corps sortiront de la lame, 
Nous aurons lors ce bien, c'est a sgavoir, 
Sante au corps et Paradis a I'ame. 

L'Infortune in Ulnstructif de la Seconde Rhetortque 
(1500) explained that the chant royal was above all 
others the poem especially adapted to royal, noble or 
majesterial subjects, that it was the best possible vehicle 
for all serious themes. He described the poets as vying 



50 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

with one another in the composition of chants royal in 
the fuy in order to gain the prize. Sibilet, in 1548, wrote 
that the chant royal was nothing but a ballade super- 
imposed upon a ballade. He explained the term by say- 
ing that it was called royal since, because of its grandeur 
and majesty, it was particularly suitable to be sung in the 
presence of royalty, especially since its special function 
was to praise princes and potentates, mortal and immor- 
tal. Deschamps, the earliest theorist on the forms, de- 
fines the chant royal substantially as it is written at the 
present time, as a iive-stanza poem of ten, eleven or 
twelve lines, no especial number being prescribed, with 
an envoy beginning with an address to the prince and 
identical rhymes running throughout. 

Jehan Molinet, in his UArt de Rhetor'ique, cites a 
chant royal that was crowned at the fuy at Amiens in 
1470. The chant royal and the ballade became favorite 
forms with the poets of the fuy. The chant royal 
seems to have been the wholly sophisticated artifice of 
poetic contrivers who were familiar with the songs of 
the trouveres and with the early ballades, whereas the 
ballade originated outside of the fuy and was adapted 
to the circumstances under which poetic contests were 
held. 



VIII 

THE RONDEAU IN FRANCE 

Among the fixed verse forms the rondeau belongs 
with the ballade in point of age. Though lifted into 
literature as an artistic dance-song, it, too, has its roots 
in the primitive past of the French folk. In its earliest 
form it was made up probably of single lines alternating 
with the refrain. Later, the line was increased, first 
to a stanza of two lines and then to a more extended 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 51 

stanza, and one or more of the lines was adapted to 
rhyme with the refrain. The word rondel, which is 
the earlier form of the word rondeau, just as in the 
French language chaprL is the earlier form of the word 
chapcauy means simply a song used as the accompaniment 
to a rondc or round dance. The earlier refrains in- 
corporated in rondeaus, like those incorporated in the 
ballade, were two lines in length. In the very earliest 
rondels they may represent fragments of folk poetry. 
The following stanza of Guillaume d'Amiens, who lived 
in the thirteenth century, approximates the earliest type 
of stanza built up in the course of choral song: 

Hareu ! commant m'i maintendrai 
Qu'Amors ne m'i laissent durer? 

Apansez sui que j'en ferai; 
Hareu! comtnant m'i maintendrai? 

A ma dame consoil prendrai 
Que bien me Ic savra doner. 
Hareu! comtnant fn'i maintendrai 
Qu'Amors ne m'i laissent durer? 

The sense of this ancient French poem is that the pains 
of love are so great that the lover does not know how 
he is going to bear up under them, but being completely 
at a loss he will go to his lady for consolation and she 
will know how to give him peace. An analysis of this 
poem shows that it falls into three stanzas, a first stanza 
of two lines, a second stanza of a single line followed 
by the first line of the first stanza forming a refrain, 
and a third stanza containing as many lines as there 
are in the first stanza with all of the first stanza serving 
at the end as a refrain. The earliest literary rondels 
are those cf the thirteenth-century poets, Guillaume 
d'Amiens and Adam de la Halle, whose name is asso- 
ciated with the fuy at Arras, but there are older types 



52 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

represented in thirteenth-century romances like the 
Roman du C hastela'in de Coucy and Adenet's Cleomades. 
In the fourteenth century, outside of the drama, the ron- 
deau became less a musical composition than a poem. 

In Deschamps' Art de Dictier there are three kinds 
of rondeaus differentiated. The first kind, which he 
calls a simple rondeau, is exactly in structure like the 
little poem of Guillaume d' Amiens given above. It is 
a poem of eight lines with a refrain of two lines at 
the beginning, with the first line of the refrain re- 
peated as the fourth line, and with a two-line refrain 
serving again as the seventh and eighth lines, the rhyme 
scheme being AB*aAabAB. This earliest form 
of rondel has persisted since the thirteenth century, but 
it has gone ever since the end of the fifteenth century 
under the name of triolet, by which it is known to-day. 
The second type which he describes was used in the 
fourteenth century only. It was a poem of thirteen 
lines, the first stanza consisting of a three-line refrain, 
the second stanza of two lines plus the first two lines 
of the refrain, and the third stanza consisting of three'^ 
lines plus the complete refrain, the rhyme scheme run- 
ning A B A/a b A B/a b a A B A, or A B B/a b A B/ 
a b b A B B. It is illustrated in this little elegy of 
Eustache Deschamps on the death of a man young in 
years but old in knowledge: 

Juenes d'aage, vieux de science, 
Expers en tout ce c'om puet dire, 
Vo mort fait maint cueur ploTer d'ire, 

Preudons de bonne conscience, 
Larges, sans nul homme escondire, 
Juenes d'aage, vieux de science, 
Expers en tout ce c'om puet dire. 

* Capitals designate the rhymes at the end of refrain lines. 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 53 

Horns plains de toute sapience, 
Vaillans pour garder un empire, 
Par vo mort mainte chose empire, 
Juenes d'aage, vieux de science, 
Expers en tout ce c'om puet dire, 
Vo mort fait maint cueur plorer d'ire. 

The third type which Deschamps discusses is called the 
double rondeau. It is a poem of sixteen or seventeen 
lines rhyming ABB A/a b B A/a b b a A B B A, or 
ABCD/abcAB/abcdABCD. This poem, 
also by Deschamps, is probably intended to conform to 
the sixteen-line double rondeau, 

Joyeusement, par un tresdoulx joir. 
En joyssant men ray vie joyeuse, 
Comme celui qui se doit resjoir 
Et joye avoir en la vie amoureuse; 

Se joyeux sui, chascuns le puet oir 
A mon chanter; tresplaisant, gracieuse, 
Joyeusement, far utj tresdoulx joir, 
En joyssant menray vie joyeuse. 

Rien ne me faut quant je vous puis veir, 
Tresdouce fleur, nouvelle et precieuse; 
Si veil courroux et tristece fuir, 
Charter pour vous et de voix doucereuse: 
Joyeusement, far un tresdoulx joir, 
En joyssant menray vie joyeuse, 
Comme celui qui se doit resjoir 
Et joye avoir en la vie amoureuse. 

the lines being dedicated to the praise of a life spent in 
joyous preoccupations in the company of the beloved. 

The evolution of the rondel from an eight-line poem 
to a poem of twice that number of lines was accom- 
plished by the process of adding one or more lines either 
to the refrain or to the body of the poem, more prob- 
ably to the latter, since the multi-line refrain is older 
than the single-line refrain. Out of the one hundred 



54 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

and seven rondeles amoureuses composed by Froissart, 
one hundred and six are of the "simple" variety, but 
Christine de Pisan, whose artifice as a maker of ballades 
has been illustrated, took the first step in reducing the 
refrain. She did not hesitate to prolong the first stanza 
of the rondeau as this quotation shows: 

Pour attraire 
Vostre amour, 
Et moy traire 
De doulour 
Me vueil traire 
Vers vous, flour, 
Sanz retraire 
Nuit ne jour. 

But she began the practice of repeating half of the 
refrain at the end of the second stanza. The poem that 
follows exhibits the abbreviation of the final refrain. 

A Dieu, ma dame, je m'en voisj 
Cent fois a vous me recommande, 
Je revendray dedens un mois. 

Plus ne verray a ceste fois 
Vo beaulte qui toudis amende; 
A Dieu, ma dame, je m'en vois. 

Et de voz biens cent mille fois 
Vous remercy, Dieu le vous renfle, 
Ne m'oblies pas toutefois; 
A Dieu, ma dame, je m'en vois. 

The terms, simple rondeau and double rondeau con- 
tinued to be used in the fifteenth century. A new type 
of double rondeau came into existence, however, one 
which had more than four lines in the first stanza. 
The double rondeau of Deschamps, such as has been 
described, came to be known in the fourteenth century 
as the quatrain rondeau, the most famous example of 
which is the enchanting 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 55 

• 
Le temps a laissie son inanteau 
De vent, de froidure et de pluye, 
Et s'est vestu de broderie 
De souleil luyant, cler et beau. 

II n'y a beste ne oyseau 
Qu'en son jargon ne chante ou crie: 

Le temps a laissie son manteau 
De vent, de froidure et de pluye. 

Riviere, fontaine et ruisseau 
Portent en livree jolie 
Gouttes d'argent d'orfavreriej 
Chascun s'abille de nouveau. 

Le temps a laissie son manteau 
De vent, de froidure et de pluye, 
Et s'est vestu de broderie 
De souleil luyant, cler et beau. 

John Payne's version is close to the original. 

The year has cast its wede away 

Of rain, of tempest and of cold, 

And put on broidery of gold 
Of sunbeams bright and clear and gay. 
There is no bird or beast to-day 

But sings and shouts in field and fold, 
The year has cast its wede away 

Of rain, of tempest and of cold. 

The silver fret-work of the May 
Is over brook and spring enscrolled, 
A blazon lovely to behold. 

Each thing has put on new array: 

The year has cast its wede away 
Of rain, of tempest and of cold. 

This Middle English version of a French quatrain ron- 
deau is also of interest: 

Bewere, my trewe innocent hert, 
How ye hold with her aliauns. 
That somtym with n-ord of plaisuns 
Resceyved you under covert. 



S6 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

m 

Thynke how the stroke of love comsmert 
Without warying or deffiauns. 
Bewere, my trewe innocent hert, 
How ye hold with her aliauns. 

And ye shall pryvely or appert 
See her by me in love's dawns, 
With her faire femenyn contenauns 
Ye shall never fro her astert. 
Bewere, my trewe innocent hert, 
How ye hold with her aliauns. 

The themes which Charles d'Orleans favored for the 
rondeau were courtly love, the fair land of France, and 
the beauty of spring. The process of increasing the 
number of lines m the rondeau went on until we find 
among the works of Charles d'Orleans himself ron- 
deaus of eighteen lines. In the fifteenth century, in 
general, refrains grew shorter and stanzas longer. The 
tendency was marked to reduce the multi-line refrain to 
two or perhaps to one line, but the early type did con- 
tinue in the works of Charles d'Orleans and in the 
drama. 

Francois Villon, the other commanding figure in 
French poetry in the fifteenth century, made little use 
of the rondeau, but the one which occurs in his Testa- 
ment has ravished many poets and has been ex juisitely 
translated into English by Rossetti. 

Mort, j'appelle de ta rigueur, 
Qui m'as ma maistresse ravie, 
Et n'es pas encore assouvie, 
Se tu ne me tiens en langueur. 
One puis n'euz force ne vigueurj 
Mais que te nuysoit-elle en vie, 
Mort? 

Deux estions, et n'avions qu'ung cueur; 
S'il est mort, force est que devie, 
Voire, ou que je vive sans vie, 
Comme les images, par cueur, 
Mort! 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 57 

From the middle of the fifteenth century on, the refrain 
of the rondel became steadily shorter so that instead 
of repeating a refrain of two lines or even a refrain 
of one line after the second stanza and after the last 
stanza, the first word only was repeated, or sometimes 
the first phrase. This circumstance is probably due to 
the fact that the scribes instead of writing out the full 
refrain followed the line of least resistance and set 
down only the first word or the first two or three words, 
allowing the readers who knew the rondeau forms well 
to supply the rest for themselves. But after a while, 
of course, the readers forgot the character of the scribes' 
abbreviation and identified the abhreviated refrain as the 
refrain. So it came about that with the exception of 
the simple rondel, or, as it was now called, the triolet, 
all forms of the rondel were now written with the first 
word or words of the first line serving as unrhymed re- 
frains after the eighth and after the thirteenth line 
respectively, for it was the rondeau of thirteen lines with 
the two unrhymed refrains, called by the French theorists 
on poetry rentrements, that became the standard form 
of the rondeau for all time. 

In connection with the history of the ballade it was 
noted that the various forms of the rondeau were uni- 
versally to be found in the religious drama of the Middle 
Ages. In the thirty-six Miracles de Nostra Dame there 
are sixty-eight examples of the form. They vary in 
length from eight to twenty-one lines. A simple rondel 
is spoken jointly by the archangels and God in Le 
Mistere du Viel "Jestament. 

Michel 
Vray Dieu, regnant en mageste, 
Du tout vous voulons obeyr. 

Gabriel 
Nous ferons vostre voulente, 
Vray Dieu regnant en mageste. 



58 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Dieu 

En gloire de felicite 

Convient les sainctz cieulx resjouyr. 

Rafhael 
Vray Dieu regnant en mageste, 
Du tout vous voulons cbeyr. 

In the mouth of an angel is put a rondel of the dis- 
tinctly fourteenth-century variety in the Miracle de Saint 

Valentine. 

Dame, far qui grace et merci 
Acquierent It ciier refentant, 
Qui vraietnent sont latnentaitt 
Des deffaultes qu'il ont fait ci, 
Puis qu'a vous en sont dementant, 
Dame, far qui grace et m-erci 
Acquierent li cuer refentant. 
Nous Savons bien qu'il est ainsi, 
Ne nulz n'en doit estre doubtant; 
Car vous pouvey troplus que tant, 
Da7?ie, far qui grace et merci 
Acquierent li cuer refentant 
Qui vraiement sont lamentant. 

In the miracles and mysteries the rondels were always 
sung. 

Clement Marot, pre-eminent for his ballades and 
chants royal, is the author of some of the loveliest 
rondeaus that French literature has to show. Most often 
quoted is his 

Au bon vieulx temps un train d'amour regnoit 
Qui sans grand art et dons se demenoit, 
Si qu'un bouquet donne d'amour profonde, 
C'estoit donne toute la Terre ronde, 
Car seulement au cueur on se prenoit. 

Et si par cas a iouyr on venoit, 
Sgavez-vous bien comme on s'entretenoit? 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 59 

Vingt ans, trente ans: cela duroit un monde 
Au bon vieulx temps. 

Or est perdu ce qu'amour ordonnoit: 
Rien que pleurs fainctz, rien que changes on n'oyt 
Qui vouldra done qu'a aymer ie me fonde, 
II faut premier que I'amour on refonde, 
Et qu'on la meine ainsi qu'on la menoit 
Au bon vieulx temps, 

which George Wyndham has translated as 

In good old days a mode of loving reigned 
With no great art nor offerings sustained, 
So that a nosegay given of love sincere. 
Was an endowment with the whole earth's sphere, 
For save the heart all else was then disdained. 

And if by chance the joys of love were gained, 
Know you how such good hap was entertained? 
It lasted on and on, from year to year 
In good old days. 

Now all is lost that love of old ordained. 
We have but changes and tears falsely feigned. 
If then ye will that love I should revere, 
You first must furnish love with other gear 
And use the manner of it men maintained 
In good old days. 

Vincent Voiture shares with Marot the distinction of 
excelhng in the rondeau. He was so fluent in the form 
that he was not afraid to say 

Si vous vouliez qu'on vous parlast d'Amour, 
Je vous ferois cent Rondeaux chaque jour." 

There are twenty-five rondeaus in his works printed at 
Brussels in 1687. He was past master of the art of 
playing with the meaning of the refrain and giving it 
new and daring significances, as this altogether delicious 
example of his work shows: 



60 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Cinq ou six fois cette nuit en dormant, 
Je vous ay vue en un accoustrement 
Au prix duquel rien ne me sgauroit plaire, 
La Juppe estoit d'une opale tres-claire, 
Et vostre robe estoit un diamant. 

Rien n'est si beau dessous le firmament. 
L'astre du jour brille moins clairement, 
Et vous passiez sa lumiere ordinaire. 
Cinq ou six fois. 

Que le sommeil nous trompe vainement! 
Par I'aventure en ce mesme moment, 
Vous-vous trouviez en estat bien contraire, 
Mais a propos, comment va cette affaire? 
Avez vous bien este tout doucement, 
Cinq ou six fois? 

In the days of the Pleiade, the rondeau, having earned 
the scorn of Du Bellay and his colleagues, was banished. 
Guillaume Colletet tells us in the final pages of his 
treatise on the sonnet that when the Palinode of Rouen 
was reorganized under the authority vested in the princes 
and members, by a bull of Pope Leo X, in 1597, it was 
ordered that henceforth the sonnet should take the place 
of honor previously enjoyed by the rondeau, and that the 
rondeau was no longer to be considered in order in the 
Puy de Rouen. This was so much the case, that Voiture, 
writing to a friend in 1638, said in his letter, "I can't be 
sure whether you know what a rondeau is. I've done 
three or four that have fired the wits to try their hand at 
them. It's a kind of verse that lends itself very well 
to raillery." About this date the rondeau was reintro- 
duced, Voiture himself carrying on the tradition of light 
verse handed down by the trouveres. Voiture used the 
thirteen-line form, which has been considered, as has 
been before observed, a standard form in France. The 
rondeau flourished in the salons, in a society much like 
that described in Moliere's Les Femmes Savantes. 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 61 

Corneille, the great dramatist himself, composed two. 
In 1676, a writer by the name of Benserade actually 
turned the Metamorphoses of Ovid into rondeaus, 
putting even his table of errata into that form. He 
cannot be held solely responsible for this enormity, since 
the idea is said to have originated with the King. A 
few rondeaus were written in the reign of Louis XIV. 
but the form fell into disuse again at the end of the 
eighteenth century, and none were written during the 
first Empire. 

In general, the rondeau was neglected in France in 
the latter part of the seventeenth century and during 
the whole of the eighteenth century. Marot had, how- 
ever, one follower in the art of the rondeau, an English- 
man, Anthony Hamilton (1646-1720), who wrote ad- 
mirable French rondeaus. 

At the beginning of the nineteenth century de Musset 
made excellent use of the form. There is something 
provocative about the very name of Manon in French 
literature. 

Fut-il jamais douceur de coeur pareille 

A voir Manon dans me bras sommeiller? 

Son front coquet parfume I'oreiller; 

Dans son beau sein j'entends son coeur qui veille. 

Un songe passe, et s'en vient I'egayer. 

Ainsi s'endort une fleur d'englantier, 
Dans son calice enfermant une abeille. 
Moi, je la berce; un plus charmant metier 
Fut-il jamais? 

Mais le jour vient, et I'Aurore vermeille 
Effeuille au vent son bouquet printanier 
La peigne en main et la perle a I'oreille, 
A son miroir Manon court m'oublier. 
Helas! I'amour sans lendemain ne veille 
Fut-il jamais? 



62 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

IX 

THE RONDEAU REDOUBLE 

The rondeau redouble, which is only very remotely 
related to the rondeau proper, was devised by Jean de la 
Fontaine (1624-1695). It is a poem of twenty-four 
lines which is divided into six stanzas. Each line of 
the first stanza appears in turn as the last line of one of 
the four following stanzas. The first words of the 
first line are repeated after the conclusion of the sixth 
stanza as an unrhymed refrain, as may be seen in this 
original example of the form: 

Qu'un vain scrupule a ma flamme s'oppose, 
Je ne le puis souffrir aucunement, 
Bien que chacun en murmure at nous glose: 
Et c'est assez pour perdre votre amant. 

Si j'avois bruit de mauvais garnement, 
Vous me pourriez bannir a juste cause; 
Ne I'ayant point, c'est sans nul fondement 
Qu'un vain scrupule a ma flamme s'oppose. 

Que vous m'aimiez c'est pour moi lettre close; 
Voire on diroit que quelque changement 
A m'alleguer ces raisons vous dispose : 
Je ne le puis souffrir aucunement. 

Bien moins pourrois vous cacher mon tourment, 
N'ayant pas mis au contract cette clause; 
Toujours ferai I'amour ouvertement, 
Bien que chacun en murmure et nous glose. 

Ainsi s'aimer est plus doux qu'eau de rose} 
Souffrez-le done, Phyllis; car autrement. 
Loin de vos yeux je vais faire une pose; 
Et c'est assez pour perdre votre amant. 

Pourriez- vous voir ce triste eloignement? 
De vos faveurs doublez plutot la dose. 
Amour ne veut tant de raisonnement : 
Ce point d'honneur, ma foi, n'est autre chose 
Qu'un vain scrupule. 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 63 

The rondeau redouble has never enjoyed the slightest 
popularity in France. 



X 

THE TRIOLET 

The early eight-line form of the rondeau was later 
given the name of triolet, possibly because, in the first 
place, it was originally a three-part song. It was only 
in the fifteenth century, after the creation of the two 
variant types that the eight-line poem became known as 
the triolet. In the fifteenth century, besides those 
authors that have been mentioned in connection with the 
rondeau, the poets who wrote triolets were Jean Regnier, 
Octavien de Saint-Gelais, and in the sixteenth century, 
Michel d'Amboise and Francois Sagon. More and 
more, the triolet came to be devoted to satire and bur- 
lesque. After going out with the coming of the Pleiade, 
the triolet was revived again at the time of the wars 
of the Fronde. At this time there was no connection 
recognized between the triolef^ and the rondeau. It 
was not until 1 720 that a French critic bracketed the 
triolet and the rondeau, but he was ignorant of the real 
connection between them. The feud between the 
Fronde and Cardinal Mazarin produced numerous trio- 
lets. To a popular tune of the day the literary partisans 
of both sides composed triolets in which they attacked 
on another. Mazarin himself, the Prince of Conde, 
and other lesser political lights gave and took in the 
wordy battle. The sufferings of the poor during the 
dlockade found expression in this triolet by Marc 
Antoine de Gerard, Sieur de Saint-Amant (1594-1661), 
in his Nobles Triolets, in which curses are heaped on the 
high price of bread and on the military operations which 
caused the scarcity. 



64 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Un pain qui coute deux ecus! 
Ah! ma foi! o'est un mauvais ordre 
La peste creve le Blocus! 
Un pain qui coute deux ecus! 
Recompensons-nous sur Bacchus 
Puis qu'a Ceres on n'ose mordre 
Un pain qui coute deux ecus! 
Ah ! ma foi I c'est un mauvais ordre. 

One triolet, a satire launched by the Parliamentarians 
against Mazarin, had for its refrain 

Maudit, maraud, malicieux, 
Sot, superb, simoniaque. 

Thus the triolet played fully as important a part in 
political as in literary history. One of the loveliest of 
the French triolets was written about 1660 by Ranchin, 
a councillor of the Chambre de I'Edit. In French it is 

Le premier jour du mois de mai 
Fut le plus heureux de ma vie: 
Le beau dessein que je formal, 
Le premier jour du mois de mai! 
Je vous vis et je vous aimai. 
Si ce dessein vous plut, Sylvie, 
Le premier jour de mois de mai 
Fut le plus heureux de ma vie. 

It is hard to put into English the delicacy of the original, 
but quite simply it is said in the triolet that the first 
of May was the very best day of the young man's life, 
because on that day he had seen and loved Sylvia, whom 
he had made up his mind to marry. And so, for that 
reason, the first day of the month of May was indeed 
the best of his life. The vogue declined in the seven- 
teenth century in France and the form practically died 
out, though Alexis Piron (1689-1783) was the author 
of a few triolets. 

Patrick Carey, one of the minor poets of the Caroline 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 65 

period in England, like George MacDonald in the nine- 
teenth century, used the triolet for religious purposes. 
Carey is supposed to have learned the use of the form 
in France. The manuscript in which his poems appear 
is dated 1651. It is of passing interest that he is men- 
tioned in Scott's Woodstock and that Scott in 1819 spon- 
sored one of the first editions of his works, in which 
these three triolets appear: 



Worldly designs, fears, hopes, farewell! 
Farewell all earthly joys and cares! 
On nobler thoughts my soul shall dwell, 
Worldly designs, fears, hopes, farewell ! 
At quiet, in my peaceful cell, 
I'll think on God, free from your snares; 
Worldly designs, fears, hopes, farewell) 
Farewell all earthly joys and cares. 

II 

I'll seek my God's law to fulfil, 
Riches and power I'll set at naught} 
Let others strive for them that will, 
I'll seek my God's law to fulfil: 
Lest sinful pleasures my soul kill, 
(By folly's vain delights first caught,) 
I'll seek my God's law to fulfil. 
Riches and power I'll set at naught. 

Ill 

Yes (my dear Lord) I've found it so; 
No joys but thine are purely sweet j 
Other delights come mixt with woe, 
Yes (my dear Lord) I've found it so. 
Pleasure at courts is but in show, 
With true content in cells we meet; 
Yes (my dear Lord) I've found it so, 
No joys but thine are purely sweet. 



66 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

XI 

THE RONDEAU IN ENGLAND 

The rondeau came to England at the same time that 
the ballade did. In Chaucer's works the form occurs 
four times. He himself called them roundels. In form 
they resemble one type of the early French rondel. His 
triple roundel is called Merciles Beaute. They are all 
thirteen-line poems, the first stanza consisting of three 
lines, the first two of which are later repeated as the 
second two lines of the second stanza, the whole of the 
first stanza being repeated as refrain at the end of the 
third stanza. They are not only thoroughly conven- 
tional in the matter, but the images and phraseology fol- 
low closely the practices of Chaucer's contemporaries in 
France. Merciles Beaute is here given: 

I. Captivity 

Your yen two wol slee me sodenly, 
I may the beaute of hem not sustene, 
So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene. 

And but your word wol helen hastily 
My hertes wounde, whyl that hit is grene. 

Your yen two wol slee me sodenly, 

I may the beaute of hem not sustene. 

Upon my trouthe I sey yow feithfully, 
That you ben of my lyf and deeth the quene; 
For with my deeth the trouthe shal be sene. 
Your yen two wol slee me sodenly, 
I may the beaute of hem not sustene, 
So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene. 

II. Rejection 

So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced 
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne; 
For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne. 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 67 

Giltlcs my deeth thus han ye me purchaced; 

I sey yow sooth, me nedeth not to feyne; 
So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced 
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne. 

Alias! that nature hath in yow compassed 
So great beaute, that no man may atteyne 
To mercy, though he sterve for the peyne. 
So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced 
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne; 
For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne. 

III. Escape 

Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, 

I never thenk to ben in his prison lene; 

Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene. 

He may answere, and seye this or that; 

I do no fors, I speke right as I mene. 
Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, 
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene. 

Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat, 

And he is strike out of my bokes clene 

For ever-mo; ther is non other mene. 
Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, 
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene; 
Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene. 

It used to be thought that Chaucer had depended solely 
on a rondel by Guillaume d' Amiens, the first three lines 
of which were 

Jamais ne serai saous 
D'esguarder les vairs ieus dous 
Qui m'ont ocis. 

But John Livingston Lowes has recently shown a much 
closer resemblance between these three roundels of 
Chaucer and three poems by Eustache Deschamps. The 
following parallel passages seem convincing: 



68 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Your yen two ivol slee me Comment pourra mon corps 

sodenly ; dttrer 

I may the beaute of hem not Ne les douls regars enduter 

siistene, De voz biatix yeux? 

So hath your beaute fro your Fay que Pitie vueille garder 

herte chaced Et bon espoir reconforter 

Pitee that me ne avaiUth not Mon fla'mt fiteiix; 

to fleyne; Car se Dangler le despiteux 

For Datinger halt your mercy Me nuist, je doy bien deman- 
in his cheyne. der 

Comment pourra, etc. 

'Chaucer's fourth roundel is found at the end of the 
Parlement of Foules. Just before the birds raise their 
voices in the little song, occurs the familiar line "The 
note, I trowe, maked was in Fraunce." The roundel 
is preceded by the French phrase, "Qui bien aime a tard 
oublie" (when once one has loved it takes a long time 
to forget). This phrase is found recurring frequently 
in the poetry of the fourteenth century. Before 
Deschamps it was used by Moniot de Paris in a hymn 
to the Virgin. It occurs also in the works of Machault. 
In its place at the head of the roundel in the Parlement 
of FouleSy it indicates the tune to which the poem is to 
be sung. The rhyme scheme and structure of the poem 
are similar to those of the individual roundels in Mer- 
ciles Beaute. In this song which the "foules" chant 
we find the echo of rustic dances celebrating the return 
of radiant spring to the countryside after a long, dark 
winter. 

Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe 
That hast this wintres weders over-shake, 
And driven awey the longe nightes blake! 

Seynt Valentyn, that art ful hy on-lofte; — 
Thus singen smale foules for thy sake — 
Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe, 
That hast this wintres weders over-shake. 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 69 

Wei han they cause for to gladen ofte, 
Sith ech of hem recovered hath his make; 
Ful blisful may they singen whan they wake: 
Now welcom somer, with thy Sonne softe, 
Thou hast this wintres weders over-shake, 
And driven away the longe nightes blake. 

Thomas Hoccleve and John Lydgate took advantage 
also of the newly introduced French fixed verse form. 
Hoccleve's rowndel is a clumsier welcome to summer 
than Chaucer's. The scribe who set down the lines 
did not trouble to repeat the refrain in full, though the 
poem is evidently like Chaucer's roundels in structure. 

Somer that rypest mannes sustenance 
With holsum hete of the sonnes warmnesse, 
Al kynde of man thee holden is to blesse 

Ay thankid be thy freendly gouernance, 
And thy fressh look of mirthe & of gladnesse! 
Somer & c 

To heuy folk of thee the remembraunce 
Is salue & oynement to hir seeknesse. 
For why we thus shal synge in Christemesse, 
Somer & c 

Lydgate celebrated the entry of Henry VI into London 
after his coronation in France by the composition of a 
rondel which has come down to us in fragmentary form, 
but which has been restored by a German scholar to 
read: 

Sovereigne lord, welcome to youre citee! 
Welcome oure joye, and oure hertes plesaunce! 
Welcome oure gladness, welcome oure suffisaunce! 
Welcome! welcome! righte welcome mot ye be! 

Singyng to fForn thi rialle majeste, 
We say of hert, withowte variaunce, 
Sovereigne lord, welcome to youre citee! 
Welcome oure joye, and oure hertes plesaunce! 



70 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Meire, citezins, and alle the comynalte, 

Att youre home comyng now owghte of Fraunce, 

Be grace relevyd of ther old grevaunce, 

Sing this day, withe grete solempnite, 

Sovereigne lord, welcome to youre citee! 

Welcome oure joye, and oure hertes plesaunce! 

If Lydgat6 wrote this rondel as a fourteen-line poem 
with curtailed refrain, as it has been reconstructed, he 
occupies in the history of the English rondeau a position 
similar to that of Christine de Pisan in France. 

After the fifteenth-century poets, there were no ron- 
deaus written until the sixteenth century, when the form 
was employed several times by Sir Thomas JWyatt, one 
of the courtly makers of King Henry VIII's court, who 
is more famous for having introduced the Italian sonnet 
into English poetry. He was a student of Chaucer and 
he knew the lyric forms" arid commonplaces of Proven- 
gal, French, and Italian poetry alike. One of Wyatt's 
rondeaus is an offensive attack on Anne Boleyn in the 
vein of the medieval French satires against women. 
The rondeau of Wyatt's most commonly cited is 

What? No, perdy! ye may be sure; 
Thinck not to make me to your lure 
With wordes and chere so contrarieing, 
Suete and soure contrewaing; 
To much it were still to endure. 
Trouth is tryed where craft is in vrej 
But, though ye have had my herte's cure, 
Trow ye I dote withoute ending? 
What? No, perdy! 

Though that with pain I do procure 
For to forgett that ons was pure, 
Within my hert shall still that thing 
Vnstable, vnsure, and wavering. 
Be in my mynde withoute recure? 
What? No, perdye! 

This rondeau exhibits the form which had become the 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 71 

standard in France, the thirteen-line poem rhyming 
a a b b a a a b/a abba, with an unrhymed refrain 
consisting of the first half of the first line repeated after 
the eighth line and after the thirteenth. Wyatt's ron- 
deaus are followed over a century later by Charles Cot- 
ton's attack on the ladies. 

Thou fool ! if madness be so rife, 
That, spite of wit, thou'lt have a wife, 
I'll tell thee what thou must expect — 
After the honeymoon neglect, 
All the sad days of thy whole lifej 

To that a world of woe and strife, 
Which is of marriage the effect — 
And thou thy woe's own architect, 

Thou fool! 

Thou'lt nothing find but disrespect, 
111 words i' th' scolding dialect, 
For she'll all tabor be, or fife; 
Then prythee go and whet thy knife. 
And from this fate thyself protect, 

Thou fool! 

Charles Cotton was a friend of Sir Izaak Walton's. 
The rondeau in France had been very generally used for 
personal and political satire in the sixteenth and the 
seventeenth centuries, and it is the satirical rather than 
the amorous rondeau that influenced both Wyatt and 
Cotton. In the eighteenth century the members of the 
Pitt ministry suffered violent attack in rondeaus that 
were printed in the political satire called the Rolliad, 
published in 1784. These two specimens shows in what 
straits the political versifier may find himself. 

Of Eden lost, in ancient days, 

If we believe what Moses says, 
A paltry pippin was the price, 
One crab was bribe enough to entice 

Frail human kind from virtue's ways. 



72 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

But now when PITT, the all-perfect, sways, 
No such vain lures the tempter lays, 
Too poor to be the purchase twice. 

Of Eden lost. 

The Dev'l grown wiser, to the gaze 
Six .thousand pounds a year displays. 

And finds success from the device; 

Finds this fair fruit too well suffice 
To pay the peace and honest praise. 

Of Eden lost. 

"A mere affair of trade to embrace, 

"Wines, brandies, gloves, fans, cambricks, lace; 

"For this on me my Sovereign laid 

"His high commands and I obeyed; 
"Nor think, my lord, this conduct base. 

"Party were guilt in such a case, 
"When thus my country, for a space, 
"Calls my poor skill to Dorset's aid 
"A mere affair of trade!" 

Thus Eden with unblushing face, 

To North would palliate his disgrace; 

When North, with smiles, this answer made: 
"You might have spared what you have said; 
"I thought the business of your place 
"A mere affair of trade!" 

These rondeaus attacking North, Eden, Pitt and Dorset 
are attributed to Dr. Laurence, a friend of Burke's. 

XII 

THE VILLANELLE 

The word villanelle, or villenesque, was used toward 
the end of the sixteenth century to describe literary imita- 
tions of rustic songs. Such villanelles were alike in 
exhibiting a refrain which testified to their ultimate pop- 
ular origin. The villanelle was, in a sense, invented by 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 73 

Jean Passcrat (1534-1602). It is a poem of six stanzas 
of not more than two rhymes, the first five of which are 
composed of three lines, the last of four, the first line 
and the third line of the first stanza alternating as re- 
frains. The tercets rhyme a b a, the quatrain usually 
a b a a. Passerat's villanelle about the turtle-dove and 
Wyndham's translation show all of these characteristics. 

J'ai perdu ma tourterelle; 
Est-ce point celle que j'oy? 
Je veux aller apres elle. 

Tu regrettes ta femelle, 
Helas! aussi fais-je moi, 
J'ai perdu ma tourterelle. 

Si ton amour est fidelle, 
Aussi est ferme ma foy; 
Je veux aller apres elle. 

Ta plainte se renouvelle, 
Tou jours plaindre je me doy; 
J'ai perdu ma tourterelle. 

En ne voyant plus la belle, 
Plus rien de beau je ne voy; 
Je veux aller apres elle. 

Mort, que tant de fois j'appelle, 
Prends ce qui se donne a toy! 
J'ai perdu ma tourterelle; 
Je veux aller apres elle. 

I have lost my turtle-dove; 
Is not that her call to me? 
To be with her were enough. 

You mourn for your mate in love, 
I chant in the same sad key, 
I have lost my turtle-dove. 

If your faith is not to move. 
Fast is my fiilclity; 
To be with her were enough. 



74 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Grief renews your song thereof, 
Endless mine of misery; 
I have lost my turtle-dove. 

Seeing- no more in the grove 
Hers, no beauty can I see; 
To be with her were enough. 

"'"V 

Death, besought all life above. 
Take one self-assigned to thee ! 
I have lost my turtle-dove; 
To be with her were enough. 

Passerat had written other villanelles, so-called, that did 
not conform to this model at all. The great Hellenist 
was undoubtedly unaware of the innovation that he had 
introduced, but the form caught the attention of his 
contemporaries and became fixed in his lifetime. Pierre 
Richelet and other writers on the theory of poetry desig- 
nated as villanelles only those poems that conformed to 
Passerat's classic example. L. E. Kastner, the eminent 
authority on French versification, mentions the fact that 
"Philoxene Boyer (1827-67) has left one well-known 
example of this form, La Marquise Aurore (which dif- 
fers slightly from Passerat's model in that the third line 
of the first tercet is repeated before the first line. . . .)" 

XIII 

THE SESTINA 

The sestina is also in a sense an invention, the first 
one being the work of Arnaut Daniel (died 1 199), who 
was ranked by Dante highest amongst Provengal poets. 
Dante himself wrote sestinas in Italian, his most famous 
one beginning with the words "Al poco giorno ed al 
gran cerchio d'ombra." In the T)e Vulgar'i Eloquio he 
says that he copied the structure of his sestinas from 
Arnaut Daniel. The sestina in its pure medieval form 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 75 

is independent of rhyme. It is composed of six stanzas 
of six lines. The final words of the first stanza appear 
in inverted order in all the others. If we let the letters 
of the alphabet represent the six final words of the first 
stanza, we have the following graphic illustration of 
the order in which these words reappear in the five fol- 
lowing stanzas: 

a b c d e f 
f a e b d c 
C f d a b e 
e c b f a d 
d e a c f b 
b d f e c a 

These six stanzas are followed by a tornada, or envoy, 
of three lines, in which all the final words are repeated 
in this order: b e, d c, f a. The stanza of the sestina 
was a climax in the development of the Provengal lyric 
called the chanso rcdonda, in which the last rhyme of 
one stanza corresponded with the first rhyme of the 
following stanza, but with the additional complication 
that every rhyme started a stanza in turn. The poets 
of the Pleiade, notably Pontus de Tyard (1521-1605), 
revived and adapted the sestina. Barnabe Barnes 
(1569P-1609), who had lived in France both in his 
boyhood and in his early manhood and had come into 
contact with the writings of the Pleiade in various ways, 
wrote five sestinas which are contained in his Parthenofhil 
and Parthenofe. The first one that is here given pre- 
sents no singularities of form. 

When I waked out of dreaming, 
Looking all about the garden, 
Sweet PARTHENOPE was walking: 
O what fortune brought her hither! 
She much fairer than that Nymph, 
Which was beat with rose and lilies. 



76 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Her cheeks exceed the rose and lilies. 
I was fortunate in dreaming 
Of so beautiful a Nymph. 
To this happy blessed garden, 
Come, you Nymphs! come. Fairies! hither. 
Wonder Nature's Wonder walking! 

So She seemed, in her walking, 
As she would make rose and lilies 
Ever flourish. O, but hither 
Hark! (for I beheld it dreaming) 
Lilies blushed within the garden, 
Stained with beauties of that Nymph. 

The Rose for anger at that Nymph 
Was pale! and, as She went on walking, 
When She gathered in the garden. 
Tears came from the Rose and Lilies! 
As they sighed, their breath, in dreaming 
I could well perceive hither. 

When PxARTHENOPE came hither, 
At the presence of that Nymph, 
(That hill was heaven ! where I lay dreaming) 
But when I had espied her walking. 
And in her hand her Rose and Lilies 
As sacrifice given by that garden; 

(To Love, stood sacred that fair garden!) 
I dared the Nymphs to hasten hither. 
Make homage to the Rose and Lilies! 
Which are sacred to my Nymph. 
Wonder, when you see her walking! 
(Might I see her, but in dreaming!) 

Even the fancy of that Nymph 
Would make me, night and day, come hither, 
To sleep in this thrice happy garden. 

Another one of his sestinas invokes the assistance of 
Echo, with what results the first stanza of the poem 
shows. 

Echo! What shall I do to my Nymph when I go to 
behold her? 

ECHO, Hold her! 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 77 

So dare I not! lest She should think that I make her 
a prey then ! 

ECHO, Pray then! 
Yea, but at me, She will take scorn, proceeded of 
honour! 

ECHO, On her! 
Me bear will She (with her, to deal so saucily) never! 

ECHO, Ever! 
Yea, but I greatly fear She will have pure thoughts to 
refuse such. 

ECHO, Few such! 
Then will I venture again more bold, if you warn 
me to do so! 

ECHO, Do so! 

The Comte de Gramont between 1830 and 1848 
wrote a number of sestinas and is credited with having 
devised the form constructed on two rhymes. Tyard 
had, however, introduced rhyme into his sestinas, the 
rhyme order in the first stanza running a b c b c a. 
Gramont reduced the rhymes to two, arranged in the 
first stanza as a b a a b b. In Gramont's sestinas the 
tornada is not constructed according to Provengal prece- 
dents. There were sporadic experiments with the 
sestina in nineteenth-century France. 

It is a curious fact that the sestina was written in 
Germany in the seventeenth century by Opitz and Weck- 
herlin. Double sestinas and sestinas in dialogue form 
have also been attempted in Germany. 

XIV 

THE REVIVAL OF THE FORMS IN THE NINE- 
TEENTH CENTURY 

The forms neglected in France for one hundred and 
fifty years or more were revived there in the late fifties 
of the last century. Shortly afterward, they established 
themselves both in England and in America. Their re- 



78 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

appearance in English literature after the lapse of four 
centuries was due to several causes, the chief of which, 
no doubt, was the close personal relations existing between 
the men of letters on both sides of the Channel, the 
monotony produced by the lesser imitators of Tenny- 
sonian blank verse and other characteristic measures of 
the great Victorians, and the feeling, more or less in the 
air, that the time had come to enrich English literature 
with fixed verse forms, some of which might perhaps 
take their place with the sonnet. The forms found a 
much more general recognition at their second coming to 
England than they had in the age of Chaucer. In par- 
ticular, the group which included Austin Dobson, 
Andrew Lang, Edmund Gosse, Algernon Charles Swin- 
burne, and W. E. Henley, were so successful in spread- 
ing the contagion of their enthusiasm for the forms and 
in adapting the forms to the requirements of English 
poetry, that many of their contemporaries on both sides 
of the Atlantic were moved to follow their example. 
Thus English letters came again into this charming 
legacy from medieval France. 

The revival of the ballade, the rondeau, the triolet, 
and the villanelle is a phase of the romanticism which 
expressed itself so variously in nineteenth-century French 
literature. The poetic sons of Victor Hugo, far from 
slavishly following his type of revolt, appear to have 
prided themselves generally on the "dissidence of their 
dissent." To Sainte-Beuve goes the honor of having 
reintroduced the ballade into France. Two stanzas of 
a Ballade du Vieux Temfs are included in his collected 
poems. In the early part of the nineteenth century, 
as has been noted, Alfred de Musset wrote airy and 
delicate rondeaus, and shortly thereafter the Comte 
de Gramont manipulated in various ways the sestina 
that had been acclimated in northern France at the time 
of the Pleiade, 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 79 

It was in particular Theodore de Banville (1820- 
1891) who, in his conscious desire to introduce unusual 
and intricate rhyme schemes into French poetry once 
more, turned back to the native fixed forms. In his 
Odes Funambulesques there are examples of the ballade, 
the chant royal, the villanelle, the rondeau, and the 
triolet. He was an ardent student of Frangois Villon. 
At the conclusion of Banville's Trente-six Ballades Joy- 
euses he makes a plea that, if Villon is to be classed 
with thieves, he must rank at least, because of the nature 
of his theft, with Prometheus, who filched divine fire. 
He refers his technique to Villon in the Dizain^ prefixed 
to the same collection: 

Comme Villon qui polit sa Ballade 

Au temps jadis, pour charmer ton souci 

J'ai fa^onne la mienne, et la voici. 

With Villon for a master, Banville's technique became 
remarkably effective. Dowden said of him some years 
ago that he "taught modern poets to unite lyrical impulse 
with the most delicate technical skill." Andrew Lang 
characterized him as "careful in form rather than abun- 
dant in manner." Lang wrote also, "There is scarcely 
a more delightful little volume in the French language 
than this collection of verses in the most difficult of 
forms which poured forth with absolute ease and flu- 
ency notes of mirth, banter, joy in the spring, in letters, 
art, and good fellowship." Stevenson, too, paid homage 
to Banville. "When De Banville," declared Stevenson, 
"revives a forgotten form of verse — and he has already 
had the honor of reviving the ballade — he does it in 
the spirit of the workman choosing a good tool wherever 
he can find one, and not at all in that of the dilettante, 
who seeks to renew bygone forms of thought and make 
historic forgeries. . . . De Banville's poems are full of 



80 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

color; they smack racily of modern life." Banville's 
ballades justify these generous appreciations, whatever 
charge of poetic trickery may be lodged against his other 
verse. His early Ballade des CeUbr'ites du Temfs Jadis, 
a parody of Villon's masterpiece, is a satire concerned 
with the literati of the day. Banville says in his notes, 
"J'ai conserve tel qu'il est le celebre refrain de Villon: 
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan! et j'ai tache de mettre 
mon art a amener ce refrain par un jeu de rimes tout 
different de celui que le maitre avait employe." Ban- 
ville's play Gringoire introduces two ballades. Villon 
is plainly the prototype of the hero, Pierre Gringoire. 
As the fifteenth-century users of the forms had done, 
Banville published a treatise on poetics. In his Petit 
Traite de Poesie Frangaisey he gives a whole chapter 
to "les poemes traditionnels a forme fixe.*' 

Albert Glatignj (1839-1873), Laurent Tailhade 
(1857—), and Emile Bergerat (1845—) have fol- 
lowed the precedent set by Banville. Both in France 
and in England Banville was beyond doubt the one man 
responsible for the renewed vogue of old refram poetry. 
Glatigny, the vagabond poet of the nineteenth century, 
contributed to L,e Parnasse Contemforain, a Ballade des 
Enfants Sans Souci, translated in the anthology, which 
is conceived in the same spirit in which Villon wrote of 
his life in Le Testament. A more urbane follower of 
Banville, Emile Bergerat, acknowledges his master in 
his Ballade a Banville. Bergerat is one of the most 
prolific of modern ballade writers. His themes are 
chiefly those of familiar verse. Possibly the most inter- 
esting from the standpoint of literary history is the 
Ballade Cambogienne^ printed anonymously by Comoe- 
diuy which challenged its readers to guess the author. 
On the following day, Edmond Rostand sent to the 
same journal his solution, Ballade sur une Ballade 
Anonyme^ the second stanza of which proclaims: 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 81 

Aussi vrai que d'Hcrmes naquit 
Sa lyre, et de Pan la syringe, 
Que le Hongrois boit du raki, 
Que le Chinois tresse la ginge, 
Qu'il ctait en ecus de singe 
Le tresor qu'une Humbert gera, 
Et que Mergy tua Comminge, 
La ballade est de Bergerat. 

Another member of this second generation of Roman- 
ticists followed Banville in writing ballades. The author 
of that pathological collection Les NevroseSy Maurice 
Rollinat (1846-1903), included the forms among "his 
wild collection of poems on disease and corruption." 
The Ballade du CadavrCy with its refrain, "La pourriture 
lente et I'ennui du squelette," is strikingly unpleasant. 
Rostand's (1868-1918) three ballades, included in Les 
Musardlses, are the lightest of poetic trifles. There is 
an insipid Ballade au Petit Bebe, which is evidence that 
Rostand's treatment of the theme is inferior in delicacy 
to Swinburne's in the roundels called Babyhood. 

Edmund Gosse wrote an article, epoch-making in its 
way, called A Plea for Certain Exotic Forms of VersCy 
which was published in the Cornh'tll Magazine in July, 
1877. This article was the manifesto really of the 
English group to which Banville's work had given 
an impetus to experiment with the new forms. In this 
article Gosse told how lie had planned to introduce the 
ballade and the rondeau into French verse, but had 
found that others had anticipated him in the good work. 
The interest in the forms in England was confined 
first to little coteries and later became a wide move- 
ment. As early as 1866 Swinburne had produced two 
rondeaus, not entirely conforming to the rules, which 
he called rondels. Gosse himself had in 1873 com- 
posed seven also slightly irregular rondeaus. Robert 
Bridges, the present poet laureate, in the same year 
produced two rondeaus that conformed in every way 



82 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

to the requirements. The year 1876 marks the return 
of the ballade after its long absence from English lit- 
erature. In May Austin Dobson wrote The Prodigalsy 
and four months later Swinburne composed his Ballad 
of Dreamland. No one, however, antedated Mr. Gosse's 
villanelle, Wouldst Thou Not Be Content to Die, which 
was published in the Athenaeum in 1874, nor the first 
example in English of the chant royal for which he was 
also responsible. In 1911 Edmund Gosse, Andrew 
Lang, and Austin Dobson wrote me, in response to some 
inquiries I had made about the revival of the forms, in 
the following terms: "You should note," Gosse's letter 
ran, "that 1876 is the date of the reintroduction of the 
ballade into English literature, Rossetti's translation 
from Villon being accidental, in the sense that he was 
attracted to the beauty of the old French poem without 
having perceived, or having attempted to retain, the char- 
acter of the form. The reason for the simultaneous 
adoption of this beautiful form by a number of poets 
is difficult to trace. But I think it was connected with 
the circulation in London of certain copies of Banville's 
Trente-six Ballades Joyeuses. This was certainly the 
case with Swinburne, Lang and myself, and I believe 
with Dobson and Henley. But a desire for the support 
of a more rigid and disciplined metre was in the air, and 
we all independently and simultaneously seized upon the 
French forms of which Banville gave the precise rules 
in his Petit Traite. I cannot find the book, but I be- 
lieve that a new edition of the Petit Traite was issued 
in 1876. I know that I wrote at that time a letter 
of adoring inquiry, and received in return a long letter 
of sympathy and advice from Theodore de Banville. 
But do not suppose that any of this interest in the 'forms,* 
as we used to call them, dates back earlier than 1870 
in England. Rossetti never sympathized with it at all." 
Andrew Lang wrote, "I happened to try to translate 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 83 

a ballade of Villon in 1870 and later found Austin 
Dobson and Gosse sporting with these toys. Probably 
Rossetti and Swinburne first drew my attention to Villon 
& Co." Austin Dobson said in his note to me, "I was 
attracted to the French forms because I was seeking to 
give a novel turn to the lighter kinds of verse which 
I had then been writing. Some time between 1873 and 
1877, I chanced on the Odes Funatnbulesques of Theo- 
dore de Banville, whose essays in this kind gave me the 
hint I wanted. I tried most of the forms in the 
Proverbs in Porcelain of 1877." Andrew Lang's men- 
tion of Rossetti recalls the circumstance that there had 
been earlier translations of ballades made with no refer- 
ence to the original form. There had, it is true, been 
translations of ballades of Alain Chartier, of Charles 
d'Orleans, and of Villon, in Louisa Costello's Specimens 
of Early Poetry of France y published in 1835; but Miss 
Costello showed no consciousness at all of the rhyme fea- 
tures of the old French form. Four years before 
(1831), Longfellow had incorporated in his paper on 
the Origin and Progress of the French Language his ver- 
sion of Clement Marot's Le Frere Lubin. Longfellow, 
like Miss Costello, ignored the peculiar rhyme system of 
the original. Rossetti's rendering of Villon's greatest 
ballade, also earlier than Dobson's The Prodigals, was, 
as Gosse wrote, "accidental"; Rossetti did not attempt 
to preserve the character of the form and never sym- 
pathized, to quote Gosse again, with the group who were 
experimenting with it. 

The year following Gosse's article in the Cornhill 
Magazine was published the first anthology of the forms. 
One section of Latter Day Lyrics, a collection of famil- 
iar verse edited by W. Davenport Adams, was devoted 
to English examples of French forms of verse. There 
were twenty-two poems in all, two triolets, one rondel, 
six rondeaus, two rondeaux redoubles, four villanelles, 



84 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

two ballades, a ballade a double refrain, two chants 
royal, a kyrielle, and a virelai. The outstanding feature 
of the book was yi Note on Some Foreign Forms of 
Verse by Austin Dobson. In this essay Dobson said, 
among other things, "The request [to write about 
the forms^] is in a measure embarrassing because the 
pieces of this kind in our language are not very numer- 
ous, and being few in number can scarcely be held 
to be representative. They come, not 'in battalions' but 
rather as 'single spies,' — with something on them of 
the strangeness born of another air and sun." It was 
customary at first for the early sponsors of the forms 
to carry on a kind of campaign on their behalf. Dob- 
son's arguments took the following form: "It has been 
urged . . . that genuine inspiration and emotion do not 
express or exhibit themselves in stereotyped shapes and 
set refrains; and it must be candidly admitted that it 
is by no means easy to combat such objections. Then 
again, there are opponents of less weight to whom (it 
may be), in the words of the 'Great Author' in Fielding's 
'Amelia,' — 'Rhymes are difficult things, — they are stub- 
born things. Sir!' — and to such, committed (perchance) 
to the comfortable but falsely seductive immunities of 
blank verse, the introduction of outlandish complications 
is a gratuitous injury. ... It may be conceded that 
the majority of the forms now in question are not at 
present suited for, nor are they intended to rival the more 
approved national rhythms in the treatment of grave or 
elevated themes. What is modestly advanced for some 
of them (by the present writer at least) is that they may 
add a new charm of buoyancy, — a lyric freshness, — to 
amatory and familiar verse, already too much condemned 
to faded measures and out-worn cadences. Further, 
upon the assumption that merely graceful or tuneful 
trifles may be sometimes written (and even read), that 
they are admirable vehicles for the expression of trifles 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 85 

or jcux d\'sprit. They have also a humbler and obscurer 
use. If, to quote the once-hackneyed, but now too-much- 
forgotten maxim of Pope — 'Those move easiest that have 
learned to dance,' — what better discipline, among others, 
could possibly be devised for 'those about to versify' than 
a course of RondeauXy Triolets^ and Ballades?" Apropos 
of this last observation of Dobson's, Louis Untermeyer's 
apprenticeship to "the forms" may be instanced. In a 
letter to the present writer he says, "You see there was 
a time — longer ago than I care to think — when I wrote 
only in the French forms. I practised them one whole 
year — for exercise, as one studies scales. I have — in 
the confines of a book which will never be printed — at 
least five pantoums, two sestinas and even — how I boast! 
— a chant royal." 

It has been supposed that Dobson turned to the French 
forms of verse because Edmund Clarence Stedman had 
remarked in Victorian Poets apropos of Dobson's earlier 
poems, that "Such a poet, to hold the hearts he has 
won, not only must maintain his quality but strive to 
vary his style." In any case, Banville's Odes Funamhu- 
lesqueSy with its triolets, rondeaus and ballades did stim- 
ulate Dobson to begin his own experiments. His 
Proverbs in Porcelain published in 1877 preceded by 
two months only Gosse's Plea. 

In 1912, Edmund Gosse in his volume of Portraits 
and Sketches, writing of Andrew Lang, analyzed his 
bent in this way, "He dipped into the wonderful 
lucky-bag of France wherever he saw the glitter of 
romance , . . his definite ambition was to be the 
Ronsard of modern England introducing a new poetical 
dexterity founded on the revival of pure humanism." 
Lang's attitude toward the forms is contained in his 
essay on Theodore de Banville. "It may be worth 
while," he writes, "to quote his [Banville's] testimony 
as to the merit of these modes of expression. 'This 



86 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

cluster of forms is one of our most precious treasures, 
for each of them forms a rhythmic whole, complete and 
perfect, while at the same time they all possess the 
fresh and unconscious grace which marks the productions 
of primitive times.' Now there is some truth in his 
criticism; for it is a mark of man's early ingenuity, in 
many arts, to seek complexity (when you would expect 
simplicity), and yet to lend to that complexity an in- 
fantine naturalness. One can see this phenomenon in 
early decorative art, and in early law and custom, and 
even in the complicated structure of primitive languages. 
Now, just as early, and even savage, races are our masters 
in the decorative use of color and of carving, so the 
nameless mastersingers of ancient France may be our 
teachers in decorative poetry, the poetry some call vers 
de societe. Whether it is possible to go beyond this, 
and adapt the old French forms to serious modern poetry, 
it is not for any one but time to decide. In this matter, 
as in greater affairs, securus judtcat orbis terraruml For 
my own part I scarcely believe that the revival would 
serve the nobler ends of English poetry." 

Gosse's Life of Swinburne and Swinburne's letters 
and other writings are full of evidences of his interest 
in the lyric forms from France. When Swinburne re- 
viewed Frederick Locker-Lampson's hyra Elegant'iarum 
he was particular to say, "We look in vain for a ballad 
or a roundel of Chaucer's . . . and it would have been 
of some little service to the common cause of good poetry 
and sound criticism if the duncery which regards or the 
impertinence which pretends to regard that beautiful 
form of verse [the ballade] as nothing better than a 
harmless exotic affectation of the present day or hour 
had been confronted with the fact that it is one of the 
numberless affectations or adoptions from foreign models 
which our language owes to the father of modern Eng- 
lish poetry. If the old French ballad form accepted 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE «7 

by Chaucer so long before it attained its highest possible 
perfection of tragic or comic excellence, of humorous 
or pathetic expression, under the incomparable and inimi- 
table touch of Villon is to be either patronized or rejected 
as an exotic of hothouse growth and artificial blossom, 
so must be the couplet, the stanza, the sonnet, the quatrain 
and all other forms of rhyming verse in common use 
among English poets from Chaucer to Wordsworth. 
But it is useless to insist on such simple and palpable 
truths; for ignorance will never understand that knowl- 
edge is attainable and impotence will never admit that 
ability may be competent. 'Do you suppose it is as easy 
to write a song as to write an epic?' said Beranger to 
Lucien Bonaparte. Nor would it be as easy for a most 
magnanimous mouse of a Calibanic poeticule to write a 
ballad, a roundel, or a virelai, after the noble fashion 
of Chaucer as to gabble at any length like a thing most 
brutish in the blank and blatant jargon of epic or 
idyllic stultiloquence." The circumstances under which 
Swinburne's /i Ballad of Dreamland shaped itself are in- 
teresting. He wrote once to Mr. Gosse in regard to 
this poem, "The ballad you like so much is about the 
only lyric I couldn't do straight off the minute I wanted 
— the verses jibbed like horses new to harness, and 
wouldn't come up to the rhymes all right — so after half- 
an-hour's pulling at them I went to bed in a rage later 
by that half hour than usual — dismissed all thought of 
verses and woke next morning all right, and went and 
wrote the thing off when I got up exactly as it now 
stands." 

Swinburne began his Century of Roundels in the 
middle of January, 1883. He used the Middle English 
designation, roundel, to describe a variation of the 
rondeau which he himself devised. Swinburne's roun- 
del is a poem of nine lines on two rhymes, with the 
beginning of the first line repeated after the third and 



88 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

after the ninth h"ne, this refrain rhyming with the sec- 
ond of the two rhymes introduced. By the sixth of 
February he had finished twenty, four more by the 
ninth, and three more on the following day. The manu- 
script was ready by the end of March. The half sheets 
of note paper on which they are written show almost no 
signs of correction. Swinburne took great pride also in 
the sestinas which he elaborated. He wrote to Edmund 
Gosse in 1877 of his poem The Complaint of Lisa, 
"Certainly if you talk of metrical inventions or inno- 
vations there is one of the hardiest on record — a redupli- 
cated inter-rhyming sestina (dodicina, as Rossetti pre- 
ferred to call it), the twelve rhymes carried on even into 
the six-line envoy, as you will find if you look close for 
them in the fourth and tenth syllables of each line of it 
— or simply if you (having a poet's ear) read it out." 
He preferred his sestina / Saw My Soul at Rest, printed 
in Once A Week, January 6, 1872, to Rizzio's in Both- 
well, both of which are reprinted in this volume. Speak- 
ing of the latter, he wrote to Edmund Gosse, "and no- 
body shall tell me I didn't invent a rhyming sestina — a 
new variety which delighted Rossetti — both in English 
and French." 

To Stephane Mallarme he wrote in 1876 in French, 
informing his correspondent at the beginning of his letter 
that he was using a piece of paper on the other side 
of which he had scribbled a translation of Villon's 
famous ballade epitaph which, Swinburne said, he had 
tried to put into English verse innumerable times within 
the sixteen years since his graduation from college and 
that he had at last succeeded in a version which seemed 
to him satisfactory. In this same letter he reports that 
he and Rossetti had had at one time the idea of translat- 
ing all the works of Villon into English, since to their 
minds Villon completed the poetic trinity of the Middle 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 89 

Ages, composed of the representatives of rhree great 
nations — Dante of Italy, Chaucer of England, and Vil- 
lon of France. 

Robert Louis Stevenson belonged to the group who 
were establishing these French forms in English. In 
1876 his essay on Charles of Orleans appeared in the 
Cornhill Magazine and in the next year his brilliant 
study, Frangois Villon, Student, Poet and House Breaker, 
in the same magazine. In 1875 he had written two ron- 
dels, which he forwarded to Mrs. Sitwell from France, 
writing to her, "I send you here two rondeaux; I don't 
suppose they will amuse anybody but me; but this meas- 
ure, short and yet intricate, is just what I desire; and I 
have had some good times walking along the glaring 
roads or down the poplar alley of the great canal, fitting 
my own humor to this old verse." 

When Stevenson was at Saranac Lake, in 1887, he 
wrote to Henley a criticism of Gleeson White's Ballades 
and Rondeaus which had just appeared. "I got your 
Gleeson White; your best work and either the best or 
second best in the book is the Ballade in Hot Weather; 
that is really a masterpiece of melody and fancy. Damn 
your Villanelles — and everybody's. G. Macdonald 
comes out strong in his two pious rondels; Pons Ban- 
dusice seems as exquisite as ever. . . . Lang cuts a poor 
figure except in the cricket one; your patter ballade is a 
great tour de force, but spoiled by similar caesuras. On 
the whole, 'tis a ridiculous volume, and I had more 
pleasure out of it than I expected. I forgot to praise 
Grant Allen's excellent ballade, which is the one that 
runs with yours." Since this collection of Gleeson 
White's, which was dedicated to Stevenson himself, no 
similar anthology has appeared until the present one. It 
is not too much to say that Gleeson White, who died in 
1916, produced a collection of poetry worthy of rank 



90 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

with the best of our poetic anthologies. His introductory 
notes on the early use of the forms have a very real 
charm of their own. 

The hold which the forms took on the minds of the 
younger poets is illustrated by a sentence from Oscar 
Wilde's review of Pater's Affreciations. He begins his 
review by describing his first meeting with Pater and 
then goes on to say, "It was during my undergraduate 
days at Oxford; days of lyrical ardours and of studious 
sonnet-writing; days when one loved the exquisite intri- 
cacy and musical repetitions of the ballade, and the vil- 
lanelle with its linked long-drawn echoes and its curious 
completeness; days when one solemnly sought to discover 
the proper temper in which a triolet should be written; 
delightful days, in which I am glad to say, there was 
far more rhyme than reason." 

It wac Dobson's Proverbs in Porcelain that introduced 
the forms to America in the spring of 1878. Brander 
Matthews and H. C. Bunner immediately began to 
spread the gospel. Brander Matthews reviewed the vol- 
ume for the Nation^ of May 2, 1878, and published a 
paper called Varieties of Verse in Affleton^s Journal for 
June, 1878, on the theory and practice of these metrical 
experiments. Both Bunner and Matthews contributed to 
Scribner^s Monthly and Puck the earliest American ex- 
amples of the rondeau, the ballade and the triolet. Bun- 
ner did not always write under his own name in Puck. 
In fact, his rondeaus. An Afril Fooly St. Valentine and 
That New Yearns Call appeared over his pen name of 
Victor Hugo Dusenbury, P. P., these letters standing 
for the title Professional Poet. 

That these lyric forms from France have held their 
own despite the interest of poetry lovers in freer verse 
patterns, may indicate that they have been taken over 
permanently by the English-speaking races. Certainly 
the anthology that follows contains in addition to those 



THEIR HISTORY AND USE 91 

writers of familiar verse whom we should expect to find, 
the names of many other writers habitually associated 
in our minds with poetry of an entirely diflrerent char- 
acter. The list includes a reasonably large proportion 
of the poets of importance in England and America since 
1875. 

What Dobson, Swinburne, and Gosse intended has 
happened. The ballade and the rondeau, at least, are 
completely acclimated. They have their own moods 
and occasions, their own aptitudes and ideas. Their 
themes range all the way from vulgar buffoonery and 
violent burlesque to delicate humours and glancing satire; 
from idle compliment to glowing passion. The bal- 
lade and the rondeau seem to have established themselves 
as genuine poetic instrumentalities. 

The triolet is dedicated particularly to the uses of 
English familiar verse. Only George Macdonald and 
Ernest Radford have turned it to more serious account. 
The sestina remains an exotic. The villanelle appears 
to be growing in favor. Aldous Huxley, commenting 
on Dowson's use of the villanelle, writes, "Well han- 
dled, the form is capable of very great beauty." 

The forms are a perpetual invitation to the apprentice 
in metrics, and for that reason they tend to direct gen- 
eral attention to the mechanism of verse and hence to 
enhance the enjoyment of poetry. The Rule of Thumb 
for the Construction of the Forms in English Verse is 
included in this volume as a guide to the amateur 
spirit ranging the lower reaches of Parnassus. 



92 



LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



^ M 5 



Total 
Number 
of Lines 


00 in 

CM ro 


J2 >-•£ 
00 o r^ lo 

Tf \0 lO VO 


00 
og 


o 


.S *- 


Address to 
"Prince or 
other digni- 
tary" at be- 
ginning of 
envoy op- 
tional. Line 
of 5 accents 
usual 


Envoy like 
ballade. 
Note Hen- 
ley's 11 -line 
stanza 


Envoy like 
ballade. All 
mid-stanza 
refrains 
alike. All 
refrains at 
end of 
stanza alike 




Position of 
Refrain 
as Line 


8, 16, 
24, 28 

10, 20, 

30, 35 


Last line of 
;very stanza 
and last line 
of envoy 
where there 
is one 


;2^ 

00^- 


fOO 

covo 

'-■rf 


Rhyme 

Scheme 

of Envoy 


b, c, b, c, 

c, c, d, 
c, d 


4) 


(J 
(J 

xT 




Number 
of Lines 
in Envoy 


Tf to 


1^ 


•^ 


ID 






.2 

O 






§5 


a, b, a, b, 

b, c, b, c 

a, b, a, b, 

b, c, c, d, 
c, d. 


1^ 


of o" 


a, b, a, b. 

c, c, d, d, 

e, d, e 


Number 
of Lines 
in St ansa 


00 o 




00 


- 


Number 

of 
Stancas 


fj CO 


\o 


CO 


ir> 




Ballade 
Type I 

Type II 


POQ 


Ballade 

A 
Double 
IIefrain 


K o 



RULE OF THUMB 



93 



1 1 


"o ^ u"o "o^o 


■angement 
inal Words 
I Envoy 




S:k,-j: 


(«•— ,- "".5—1 t«".^'~ 

5 ;:: 1 ji E-2 8 o.b-^ 








c^ in -1- vo 




«*«(«,-, 




o c ° 


<-) 


W en 


■^•^ 




S^o5 


Sli^ tl 


lA -4 o|) r^ VO ro £■ ^ N 
<^ lO 'j- oj ^ \o ^ 5 "S 


Itl 




(V),— ivorOiOTf JS'S.^ 












^ 4-* +-( 




'^'^it-'i-^^t-s^ 




r tnS ^ cfl 5 >< 71 


i: ~ 


?^ 5 


r -^ C o rt <u i- 


§5 


^X -"'•^ ..-5 "■ rtJ2 








rt >«.b: s^ 3 "! > 




^OuT:tnt«rti*-Xio 


w "o S^ 




^ ^ § 




l^uj 


ro 


>^"^.S 










-i^ 


F^ 


T! "« 


O 


ii-^ 


g 




^5 


5^fe 




■^ 


>- '' s 




tu ra tj 




^ S - 




-. •— t3 




s-^c;^ 


\o 


^^.5 








1 5 




S "= Q 


VO 






< t^ 





> 





I •<-; en o) 












1-, oj rt ^ 




•2 ^ 










^gl5-g-g 






._ .t: "O cj 




"O <u ', C J, • ' j:; MH M r; !> 




J: II C 3 3 
M-ciy^jllrtOc-OOMH 






1 
















C "^ '^ 




rt 3 - 




4-; O rt 




«>« 




o I, ja" 


tii ^ 


^7 "^^ rt 


^5 


w .- » 




4J rt rt 


^5 






o rt " 




tL. <0 Ji 




rt C 




N ^ 






^•^ 




Cd 4-> 




C •'- 


•^ 


rt <« 


^ t^ 


"^ c 


M~, S 


D'" 


O O 


> .- 


vco 


""SS 


«a 


^•s.s 


"2.* 


^ 


tn'" — 


s 






■^2. 






"+-, 




!s 




tu tj 




-O S 


VO 


S O 








SCO 




:e 





94 



LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 





Lines of 3 ac- 
cents and 4 ac- 
cents common 


Swinburne fa- 
vored line of 6 
feet and fre- 
quent anapaests 


(1) Any rhyme 
order may be 
followed so long 
as only 2 rhymes 
are used 

(2) New mean- 
ing to be given 
to refrain when 
repeated for last 
line 


{Rhymes as 

in 

Rondel 
i Play on mean- 
< ing of refrain 
Las in Rondel 




Number 

of 
Stansas 


- 


<^ 


fO fo 


fO CM 


VO 


g 

s 

O 

a. 


Repeated as lines 1 and 
2; 7 and 8; the first 
line only as line 4 


First part of first line; 
after third line ; after 
ninth line 


As lines 1 and 2 ; 7 and 
8; 13 and 14 

As lines 1 and 2 ; 7 and 
8. First hne of re- 
frain only as line 13 


First part of first line; 
after line 5 ; after line 
13 

After sixth and after 
tenth line 


R 1= refrain of stanza 2 

R3= « " " 4 

R *= " " " 5 

First phrase of line 1 

repeated after sixth 

stanza ; unrhvmed 


Sec; 


<v 
G 

O 


As in rondeau, but 
refrain always 
rhymes with "b" 


Two lines 
Two lines 


First part of first 
line = "R" 

First word of first 
line 


rt II* 

en 

en C ,^ 

E 


^5 


a 

<m 
< 


XI 


A, B, a, b ; b, a, 
A, B ; a, b. a, b. 
A, B 

A, B, b, a ; a, b, 
A, B ; a, b, b, 
a, A 


a, a, b, b, a; a, 

a, b, R; a, a, b, 

b, a, R 

a, b, b, a, a, b, 
R ; a, b, b, a, R 


a, b, a, b for 
stanzas one, 
three, and five; 

b, a, b, a, for 
stanzas two and 
four ;b,a,b,a,R, 
for sixth stanza 




00 


o\ 


TJ- CO 


ro O 


' i 


to, 


H 

►J 


a 


Rondel 
Type I 

Type II 


Rondeau 
Type I 

Type II 


Rondeau 
Redouble 



THE ANTHOLOGY 



■'X 



CONTENTS OF THE ANTHOLOGY 



BALLADES 

Adams, Franklin P. 

Ballade of Schopenhauer's Philosophy 
Aldington, Richard 

Epitaph in Ballade Form (Villon) 
Alx^en, Grant 

A Ballade of Evolution . 
Black, William 

Ballade of Solitude 
BuRGE?s, Gelett 

Ballade of Fog in the Caiion . 

Ballade of the Cognoscenti 
BvNNER, Witter 

'The Loves of Every Day' 
Cabell, James Branch 

Foot-Note for Idyls 

Ronsard Re-Voices a Truism . 

Story of the Flowery Kingdom 

The Hoidens .... 

Villon Quits France 
Chesterton, G. K. 

A Ballade of a Book-Reviewer 

A Ballade of Suicide 

A Ballade of the First Rain 
Chalmers, Patrick R. 

Ballade of August . 

Ballade of Crying for the Moon 

Ballade of the Forest in Summer 
Daly, T. A. 

A Ballade of Brides 

Ballade of the Tempting Book 

Ballade to the Women 
DoBSON, Austin 

A Ballad of Heroes 

A Ballad to Queen Elizabeth 
97 



Page 

246 

123 

227 

192 

182 
198 

21 + 

201 
135 
230 
206 
134 

237 
247 
175 

186 
244 
188 

223 
236 
225 

204 
164 



98 



LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



On a. Fan tliat Belonged to the Marquise de Pompadour 

"O Navis" 

The Ballad of Imitation 

The Ballad of the Thrush . 

The Prodigals 
Elton, O. . 

Ballade des Enfants Sans Souci (From Albert Glatigny) 
Field, Eugene 

Ballade of Women 1 Love 

GossE, Edmund 

The Ballad of Dead Cities 

Theodore de Banville 
Guiterman, Arthur 

Pallade of Caution 

Ballade of Dime Novels 
Henley, W. E. 

Ballade of Antique Dances 

Ballade of Aspiration 

Ballade of a Toyakuni Colour Print 

Ballade of Dead Actors 

Ballade of June .... 

Ballade of Ladies' Names 

Ballade of Spring .... 

Ballade of Truisms 
Hooker, Brian 

Ballade of the Dreamland Rose 
Johnson, Burges 

Ballade of the Little Things that Count 
Johnson, Lionel 

Ballade of the Caxton Head . 
Kilmer, Joyce 

Ballade of My Lady's Beauty 

Princess Ballade 

Lang, Andrew 

A Very Woful Ballade of the Art Critic 

Ballade des Pendus (Gringoire) 

Ballade for the Laureate (After Theodore de 

Ballade of Christmas Ghosts 

Ballade of Dead Cities .... 

Ballade of Dead Ladies (After Villon) 

Ballade of Old Plays .... 

Ballade of Primitive Man 

Ballade of the Girton Girl . 



Banville) 



Page 
153 
165 
238 
178 
115 

142 

219 

143 
141 

229 
242 

154 
180 
155 
149 
179 
220 
177 
202 

209 

226 

233 

212 
185 

240 
127 
138 
170 
144 
128 
152 
228 
221 



CONTENTS OF THE ANTHOLOGY 



99 



Page 

Ballade of the Southern Cross 166 

Ballade of the Unattainable 234 

Ballade to Theocritus, in Winter 173 

Ballad of the Gibbet 126 

Le Gallienne, Richard 

A Ballade of Old Sweethearts 215 

Ballade Against the Enemies of France (Villon) 122 

Ballade of Old Laughter 249 

Ballade of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon .217 

Ballade of the Things that Remain . . . .189 
Ballade of the Unchanging Beauty . . . .156 

Levy, Newman (and Salsbury, Nate) 

Ballade of the Ancient Wheeze ..... 248 

Macaulay, Rose 

Ballade of Dreams 194 

Marquis, Don 

'King Pandion, He Is Dead' 197 

Matthews, Brander 

A Ballade of Midsummer 184 

An American Girl 222 

The Ballade of Adaptation . . . . .2 39 

The Ballade of Fact and Fiction . . . .241 

McCarthy, Justin Huntley 

A Ballade of Roses 210 

Moore, George 

The Ballade of Lovelace 218 

MoRAN, John 

'From Battle, Murder and Sudden Death, Good Lord 

Deliver Us' 199 

MoRLEY, Christopher 

Ballade of Books Unbought 235 

Ballade of the Lost Refrain 118 

MouLTON, Louise Chandler 

In Winter 171 

OciLviE, Will H. 

Ballade of Windy Nights 169 

Peck, Samuel Minturn 

The Pixies 172 

Roberts, Charles G. D. 

A Ballade of Calypso 216 

Robinson, A. Mary F. 

A Ballad of Heroes 203 



100 



LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



Robinson, Edwin Arlington 

Ballade by the Fire 

Ballade of Broken Flutes 
Robinson, Edwin Meade 

Ballade of a Backslider 

Ballade of Easter Dawn 
Ropes, Arthur Reed 

Ballade of a Garden 
Sackville, Lady Margaret 

Ballade of the Journey's End 
Salsbury, Nate (and Levy, Newman) 

Ballade of the Ancient Wheeze 
Scollard, Clinton 

A Ballade of Midsummer 

Alas, for the Fleet Wings of Time 

Alone in Arcady 

Ballade of Dead Poets . 

Farewell, Farewell, Old Year 

For Me the Blithe Ballade 

Where are the Ships of Tyre 
Sharp, William 

Ballade of the Sea-Folk 

Ballade of Vain Hopes . 
Sherman, Frank Dempster 

To Austin Dobson 

Stephen, J. K. 

The Ballade of the Incompetent Ballade-Monger 
Strong, Archibald T. 

Ballade of the Nightingale (Theodore de Banville) 

Ballade of Women (Theodore de Banville) 
Swinburne, Algernon Charles 

A Ballad at Parting 

A Ballad of Appeal 

A Ballad of Bath . 

A Ballad of Dreamland 

A Ballad of Frangois Villon 

A Ballad of Sark . 

Ballad Against the Enemies of France (Villon) 

Ballad of the Lords of Old Time (Villon) 

Ballad of the Women of Paris (Villon) 

Ballad Written for a Bridegroom (Villon) 

Heartsease Country ...... 

In the Water 

The Ballad of Melicertes .... 



CONTENTS OF THE ANTHOLOGY 



101 



The Epitaph in Form of a Ballad (Villon) 
Symons, Arthur 

A Ballade of Kings 

Taylor, B. L. 

A Ballade of Irresolution .... 

A Ballade of Spring's Unrest 

Ballade of the Oubliette .... 

Ballade of the Pipesmoke Carry . 
To.MSON, Graham R. 

Asphodel .... 

Dead Poets 

The Flight of Nicolete . 

The Marsh of Acheron 

The Optimist 
Tyerman, Nelson Rich 

Ballad: Before My Bookshelves . 
Wells, Carolyn 

Ballade of Indignation ..... 
White, Gleeson 

With Fitzgerald's "Omar Khayyam" 
Woods, Margaret L. 

A Ballade of the Night 

BALLADES A DOUBLE REFRAIN 

DoBsoN, Austin 

The Ballade of Prose and Rhyme . 
Henley, W. E. 

Ballade of Midsummer Days and Nights 

Ballade of Youth and Age 
Lang, Andrew 

Ballade of the Real and Ideal 
Matthews, Brander 

Rain and Shine 

RoniNSON, Edwin Meade 

Ballade a Double Refrain 
Taylor, B. L. 

Ballade of Death and Time . 
Wells, Carolyn 

Ballade of Wisdom and Folly 

DOUBLE BALLADES 

Henley, W. E. 

Double Ballade of Life and Fate , 



Page 
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150 

211 
181 
243 
183 

193 

146 
213 
200 
245 

231 

120 

232 

168 



260 

254 
256 

258 

255 

253 

259 

257 

266 



102 



LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



Double Ballade of the Nothingness of Things 
Payne, John 

Double Ballad of the Singers of the Time . 
Swinburne, Algernon Charles 

A Double Ballad of August .... 

A Double Ballad of Good Counsel 
'"V 

CHANTS ROYAL 



Burgess, Gelett 

Chant Royal of California . 

Chant Royal of the True Romance 
DoBSON, Austin 

The Dance of Death 
Gosse, Edmund 

The Praise of Dionysus . 
Hooker, Brian 

Ballade of Farewell 
Payne, John 

Chant Royal of the God of Love 
Pfeiffer, Emily 

The Chant of the Children of the 
Le Gallienne, Richard 

The Destined Maid : A Prayer 
Marquis, Don 

Chant of the Changing Hours 
Scollard, Clinton 

King Boreas .... 
Talbot, Ethel 

Chant Royal of August . 
Waddington, Samuel 

The New Epiphany 



Mist 



Page 
269 

263 

265 
268 



293 
291 

277 

275 

295 

280 

286 

282 

279 

288 

284 

290 



RONDELS 



Baker, Karle Wilson 

Rondel for September 
Bunner, Henry Cuyler 

O Honey of Hymettus Hill . 

Ready for the Ride — 1795 
Burgess, Gelett 

Rondel of Perfect Friendship 



316 

315 

303 

308 



CONTENTS OF THE ANTHOLOGY 



103 



Crane, Walter 

Rondel .... 

Rondel .... 
DoBSON, Austin 

The Wanderer 

"Vitas Hinnuleo" 
Drinkwater, John 

Earth Love 

Roundels of the Year 
GossE, Edmund 

Rondel (After Anyte of Tegea) 
Henley, W. E. 

Rondel 

Variations .... 

Lang, Andrew 

Rondel (Charles d'Orleans) 
Macdonald, George 

Two Rondels .... 
McCarthy, Justin Huntley 

Rondel 

Moore, George 

Rondels 

Morley, Christopher 

Rondel (After Charles d'Orleans) 

Twilight 

Payne, John 

Rondel 

Peck, Samuel Minturn 

'Before the Dawn' .... 
Ropes, Arthur Reed 

From Theodore de Banville . 
Scollard, Clinton 

Upon the Stair I See My Lady Stand 
Sherman, Frank Dempster 

"Awake, Awake!" .... 
Stevenson, Robert Louis 

Far Have You Come, My Lady, from the Town 

Since I Am Sworn to Live My Life 

We'll Walk the Woods No More . 



RONDEAUS 



Bates, Arlo 

In Thy Clear Eyes 



Page 

305 
306 

307 
307 

318 
312 

318 

319 
311 

301 

317 

306 

314 

301 
308 

304 

316 

302 

303 

305 

310 

309 
309 



340 



104 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Page 

Might Love Be Bought 339 

Bridges, Robert 

Rondeau 331 

Rondeau .332 

BuNNER, Henry Cuyler 

An April Fool 352 

Les Morfs Vont Vite 365 

Saint Valentine .35 3 

That New Year's Call 352 

Burgess, Gelett 

Rondeau: Oh, in My Dreams I Flew .... 366 

Cabell, James Branch 

Fancies in Filigree .323 

Grave Gallantry . . . . . . . .367 

Compton-Rickett, Arthur 

O Winds that Wail 365 

Crane, Walter 

'In Love's Disport' 336 

'What Makes the World?' 337 

Daly, T. A. 

At Home 348 

DoBSON, Austin 

After Watteau 325 

A Greeting 325 

"Farewell, Renown!" 328 

In After Days 329 

"O Fons Bandusis" 327 

"On London Stones" 329 

To Daffodils 326 

"When Burbadge Played" . . . .... 326 

"When Finis Comes" 330 

"With Pipe and Flute" 328 

DowsoN, Ernest 

Rondeau 342 

GossE, Edmund 

Fortunate Love . . , . . . . .333 

Rondeau 332 

Grant, Robert 

Rondeaux of Cities 346 

Henley, W. E. 

If I Were King 345 

My Love to Me 344 

The Gods Are Dead 362 



CONTENTS OF THE ANTHOLOGY 105 

Page 

What Is To Come .363 

With Strawberries 355 

Lang, Andrew 

Rondeaux of the Galleries 355 

Le Gallienne, Richard 

With Pipe and Book 360 

Macaulay, Rose 

Old Year 361 

The New Year 361 

Mackintosh, E. A. 

To Catullus 358 

Marquis, Don 

The Rondeau 323 

Martin, Ada Louise 

Sleep 362 

Marzials, Theo. 

To Tamaris 343 

Matheson, Annie 

Rondeau 338 

Matthews, Brander 

Les Morts Vont Vite 366 

Sub Rosa ' . . .351 

The Old and the New 360 

McCarthy, Justin Huntley 

If I Were King 345 

Love in London 346 

McCrae, John 

In Flanders Fields 370 

Monkhouse, Cosmo 

O Scorn Me Not 343 

'Violet' 356 

MoRLEY, Christopher 

All Lovely Things 342 

For a Birthday 349 

To R.L.S 358 

When Shakespeare Laughed 359 

Moulton, Louise Chandler 

If Love Could Last 341 

Napier, Eliott 

All Men Are Free 369 

Payne, John 

Rondeau 340 



106 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Page 

Peck, Samuel Minturn 

Among My Books 357 

Beyond the Night 36+ 

Roberts, Charles G. D. 

'Without One Kiss' 338 

Robinson, Edwin Meade 

In Visionshire ......... 354 

RossETTi, Dante Gabriel 

To Death, Of His Lady (Villon) ... .367 

ScoLLARD, Clinton 

At Peep of Dawn 354 

Vis Erotis 339 

Seaman, Sir Owen 

To Austin Dobson. After Himself. (Rondeau of 

Villon) 330 

Stanton, Gareth Marsh 

Rondeau 341 

Stetson, Charlotte Perkins 

A Man "Must Live 369 

Swinburne, Algernon Charles 

Rondel 331 

ToMSON, Graham R. 

In Beechen Shade .357 

The Gates of Horn 363 

Untermeyer, Louis 

A Father Speaks 350 

Wells, Carolyn 

Her Spinning-Wheel .349 

Maiden Meditation 351 



ROUNDELS 

Cabell, James Branch 

Arcadians Confer in Exile 490 

Compton-Rickett, Arthur 

A Roundel 382 

Levy, Amy 

Between ihe Showers .382 

Straw in the Street 38 3 

Stephen, J. K. 

Regrets. A Rondel 490 

The Poet's Prayer 384 



CONTENTS OF THE ANTHOLOGY 107 

SvviNHURNE, Algernon Charles Page 

At Sea 377 

Babyhood 374 

Etude Realiste 373 

Flower-Pieces 376 

Past Days 380 

The Roundel 373 

Three Faces 378 

To Catullus 379 

Two Preludes 381 

Symons, Arthur 

A Roundel of Rest 383 

Waddington, Samuel 

Mors et Vita 384 



RONDEAU X REDOUBLES 

Burgess, Gelett 

A Daughter of the North 389 

MoNKHOusE, Cosmo 

Rondeau Redouble 390 

Payne, John 

Rondeau Redouble 389 

ScoLLARD, Clinton 

The Prayer of Dryope 387 

ToMSON, Graham R. 

Rondeau Redouble 388 

Untermeyer, Louis 

A Complacent Rondeau Redouble 391 



TRIOLETS 

Bates, Arlo 

A Rose 400 

Bridges, Robert 

Triolet 402 

Triolet 402 

Bunner, Henry Cuyler 

A Pitcher of Mignonette 395 

Crane, Walter 

Triolet 409 

Crapsey, Adelaide 

Song 411 



108 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Dalv, T. a. I'age 

Mistletoe and Holly 397 

DoBSON, Austin 

"Persicos Odi" 404 

Rose-Leaves 397 

GossE, Edmund 

Triolet, After Catullus 404 

GuiTERMAN, Arthur 

Apology 401 

Parable 402 

Henley, W. E. 

Triolet 395 

Lang, Andrew 

Triolets After Moschus 404 

Triolet to Her Husband (A. Fertiault) . . .406 

Learned, Walter 

In Explanation .400 

Macdonald, George 

Serenade Triolet 408 

Song 408 

Triolet 411 

Marquis, Don 

The Triolet 395 

Matthews, Brander 

August? : Hottest Day of the Year .... 396 

MouLTON, Louise Chandler 

Thistle-Down 403 

Peck, Samuel Minturn 

Under the Rose .399 

Radford, Ernest 

Six Triolets 406 

The Shelley Memorial 405 

Robertson, Harrison 

Two Triolets 401 

Sayle, Charles 

Triolet of the Bibliophile 405 

Scollard, Clinton 

A Snowflake in May 396 

Symons, Arthur 

Vestigia 410 

ToMsoN, Graham R. 

Blind Love 403 

Les Roses Mortes 396 

Of Himself . . . . 403 



CONTENTS OF THE ANTHOLOGY 109 



VILL^NELLES 

Adams, Franklin P. Page 
Villanelle, With Stevenson's Assistance . . . .441 

Akins, Zop: 

Villanelle of City and Country 439 

Andrews, Margaret Lovell 

At a Breton Sea-Blessing-. Breton Villanelle 434 

DoBSON, Austin 

"A Voice in the Scented Night." Villanelle at Verona 416 

For a Copy of Theocritus 417 

On a Nankin Plate 418 

"When I Saw You Last, Rose" 417 

Dou'son, Ernest 

Villanelle of Acheron 422 

Villanelle of His Lady's Treasures .... 424 

Villanelle of Marguerites 422 

Villanelle of Sunset 423 

Villanelle of the Poet's Road 424 

GossE, Edmund 

Villanelle 415 

Villanelle 415 

Henley, W. E. 

Villanelle 420 

Villanelle 421 

Lang, Andrew 

Villanelle 419 

Villanelle 420 

Megroz, R. L. 

A Villanelle of Love 433 

OciLviE, Will H. 

Villanelle 435 

Payne, John 

Villanelle 427 

Villanelle 428 

Pfeiffer, Emily 

When the Brow of June 436 

Robinson, Edwin Arlington 

The House on the Hill 437 

Scollard, Clinton 

Love, Why So Long Away 432 

Villanelle to Helen 431 

Villanelle to the Daffodil 430 



110 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Stanton, Gareth Marsh Pag-e 

Villanelle 433 

Thirlmere, Rowland 

My Dead Dogs 438 

Thomas, Edith M. 

Across the World I Speak to Thee . . . .437 

ToMsoN, Graham R. 

Jean-Francois Millet 430 

To Hesperus 429 

Untermeyer, Louis 

Lugubrious Villanelle of Platitudes .... 440 

Wilde, Oscar 

Pan— A Villanelle 425 

Theocritus 426 

SESTINAS 

Burgess, Gelett 

Sestina of Youth and Age 457 

Cabell, James Branch 

The Conqueror Passes 446 

GossE, Edmund 

Sestina 445 

Kipling, Rudyard 

Sestina of the Tramp-Royal 458 

Robinson, A. Mary F. 

Pulvis et Umbra 454 

Scollard, Clinton 

Cupid and the Shepherd 455 

Swinburne, Algernon Charles 

The Complaint of Lisa 449 

Rizzio's Love-Song 447 

Sestina 453 

PARODIES AND BURLESQUES 

Adams, Franklin P. 

Such Stuff as Dreams 484 

Anonymous 

The Prodigals (After Austin Dobson) .... 464 

Anthony, Edward 

Ballade of Dottiness 470 

Epitaph for a Deserving Lady 485 

He Collected His Thoughts 484 



CONTENTS OF THE ANTHOLOGY 



111 



BuNNER, Henry Cuyler 

Behold the Deeds 

On Newport Beach 

The Ballade of the Summer Boarder 
Davey, Norman 

The Sestina of the Minor Poet . 
Deane, Anthony C. 

Contributed by Mr. Andrew Lang 
Henley, VV. E. 

Culture in the Slums .... 

Villon's Straight Tip to All Cross Coves 
Herbert, A. P. 

Ballade of Incipient Lunacy . 
Johnson, Burghs 

A Rondeau of Remorse .... 
Marquis, Don 

Chant Royal of the Dejected Dipsomaniac 
Moore, Augustus M. 

A Ballade of Ballade-Mongers 
Unter.meyer, Louis 

A Burlesque Rondo .... 

Austin Dobson Recites a Ballade by Way of 

Ballade 

Nocturne 

The Passionate Esthete to His Love. Andrew Lang 
and Oscar Wilde Turn a Nursery Rhyme into a 
Rondeau Redouble ....... 

The Poet Betrayed. Heinrich Heine and Clinton Scol- 
lard Construct a Rondeau . . . . . 

Triolet . 



Retort 



Page 
479 
472 
471 

483 

466 

472 
475 

468 

476 

481 

463 

476 
465 
467 
485 

477 

477 
467 



ADAPTATIONS 

Hunt, Leigh 

Rondeau . . . . 

Lang, Andrew 

Rondel (Francois Villon, 1460) 

Rondel (Charles d'Orleans) 
McCarthy, Justin Huntley 

I Wonder in What Isle of Bliss . 
Rossetti, Dante Gabriel 

His Mother's Service to Our Lady (Villon) 

The Ballad of Dead Ladies (Villon) . 
Sharp, William 

Ballade of the Song of the Sea-Wind . 



492 

489 
489 

494 

492 
493 

157 



BALLADES 



THE PRODIGALS 

"Princes! — and you, most valorous, 

Nobles and Barons of all degrees! 
Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, — 

Beggars that come from the over-seas! 

Nothing we ask or of gold or fees; 
Harry us not with the hounds we pray; 

Lo, — for the surcote's hem we seize, — 
Give us — ah! give us — but Yesterday!" 

"Dames most delicate, amorous! 

Damosels blithe as the belted bees! 
Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, — 

Beggars that come from the over-seas! 

Nothing we ask of the things that please; 
Weary are we, and worn, and gray; 

Lo, — for we clutch and we clasp your knees, — 
Give us — ah! give us — but Yesterday!" 

"Damosels — Dames, be piteous!" 

(But the dames rode fast by the roadway trees.) 
"Hear us, O Knights magnanimous!" 

(But the knights pricked on in their panoplies.) 
Nothing they gat or of hope or ease, 
But only to beat on the breast and say: — 

"Life we drank to the dregs and lees; 
Give us — ah! give us — but Yesterday!" 

ENVOY 

Youth, take heed to the prayer of these! 
Many there be by the dusty way, — 

Many that cry to the rocks and seas 
"Give us — ah! give us — but Yesterday!" 

Austin Dobson 
115 



116 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



TO AUSTIN DOBSON * 

From the sunny climes of France, 

Flying to the west, 
Came a flock of birds by chance, 
"■^v There to sing and rest: 

Of some secrets deep in quest, — 

Justice for their wrongs, — 
Seeking one to shield their breast. 

One to write their songs. 

Melodies of old romance, 

Joy and gentle jest. 
Notes that made the dull heart dance 

With a merry zest; — 
Maids in matchless beauty drest, 

Youths in happy throngs; — 
These they set to tempt and test 

One to write their songs. 

In old London's wide expanse 

Built each feathered guest, — 
Man's small pleasure to enhance, 

Singing him to rest, — 
Came, and tenderly confessed, 

Perched on leafy prongs, 
Life were sweet if they possessed 

One to write their songs. 

ENVOY 

Austin, it was you they blest: 

Fame to you belongs! 
Time has proven you're the best 

One to write their songs. 

Frank Demfster Sherman 

* Used by permission of, and by arrangement with Houghton 
Mifflin Company. 



BALLADES 117 



FOR ME THE BLITHE BALLADE 

Of all the songs that dwell 

Where softest speech doth flow, 

Some love the sweet rondel, 
And some the bright rondeau 
With rhymes that tripping go 

In mirthful measures clad; 

But would I choose them? — no, 

For me the blithe ballade! 

O'er some, the villanelle, 

That sets the heart aglow, 
Doth its enchanting spell 

With lines recurring throw; 

Some weighed with wasting woe. 
Gay triolets make glad; 

But would I choose them? — no, 
For me the blithe ballade! 

On chant of stately swell 

With measured feet and slow. 

As grave as minster bell 
At vesper tolling low. 
Do some their praise bestow; 

Some on sestinas sad; 

But would I choose them? — no, 

For me the blithe ballade! 

ENVOY 

Prince, to these songs a-row 
The Muse might endless add; 

But would I choose them? — no, 
For me the blithe ballade! 

Clinton Scollard 



118 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF THE LOST REFRAIN 

In a vacant mood the phrase came to me — 

Alas! I neglected to make it mine — 
It may have been jocund, or deep and gloomy: 

It is gone, and has left no trace or sign. 
It is gone, and it might have been the line 

That in all men's memories would remain: 
It is vanished and never again will shine — 

O lovely lyrical lost refrain! 

Though Apollo's golden sandal shoe me, 

Dionysos pour me his purpling wine, 
That forgotten snatch will still pursue me 

And chafe my spirit and chill my spine: 
For lo! when one of the Muses nine, 

Descending stoops to a clownish brain, 
She expects him to note the hint divine — 

O lovely lyrical lost refrain! 

And now — no wonder my joints are rheumy 

And I am listless to laugh or dine, 
And my lightsome friends say they never knew me 

So doloroblliously peak and pine; 
But I have no mnemonics that can untwine 

That line so musical, terse, urbane, 
Chryselephant, nympholept, sapphirine — 

O lovely lyrical lost refrain! 



O Muse (as Rosalind said), come woo me! 

My sorrowful heart you may soothe and sain. 
But never again will that thrill run through me — 

O lovely lyrical lost refrain! 

Christopher Morley 



BALLADES 119 

THE BALLADE OF THE INCOMPETENT 
BALLADE-MONGER 

I am not ambitious at all: 

I am not a poet, I know 
(Though I do love to see a mere scrawl 

To order and symmetry grow). 

My muse is uncertain and slow, 
I am not expert with my tools, 

I lack the poetic argot: 
But I hope I have kept to the rules. 

When your brain is undoubtedly small, 

'Tis hard, sir, to write in a row. 
Some five or six rhymes to Nepaul, 

And more than a dozen to Joe: 

The metre is easier though, 
Three rhymes are sufficient for 'ghouls,' 

My lines are deficient in go. 
But I hope I have kept to the rules. 

Unable to fly let me crawl, 

Your patronage kindly bestow: 
I am not the author of Saul, 

I am not Voltaire or Rousseau: 

I am not desirouj, *h no! 
To rise from the ranks of the foob, 

To shine with Gosse, Dobson and Co.: 
But I hope I have kept to the rules. 

Dear Sir, though my language is low. 

Let me dip in Pierian pools: 
My verses are only so so, 

But I hope I have kept to the rules. 

J. K. Stephen 



120 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



A BALLADE OF INDIGNATION 

Now if there is one thing I hate 

It is lame vers de societe, 
And I cannot help feeling irate 

■With the versemongers writing to-day. 

They rhyme a thing any old way, 
They regard neither science nor schools; 

But when the French Forms they essay, 
At least they might follow the rules. 

They consider themselves "up-to-date" 

If they've written a Sonnet to May, 
And fancy they feel on their pate 

A chaplet of laurel or bay. 

At a triolet or virelai 
They rush, like proverbial fools, — 

But in their wild, wordy display 
At least they might follow the rules. 

In their ignorance boldly elate, 

To rhymes no attention they pay; 
They ride at a rollicking gait 

On a Pegasus madly astray. 

No hindrance their progress will stay. 
No remonstrance their mad ardour cools,- 

But in their syllabic array 
At least they might follow the rules. 



Calliope, pardon, I pray. 
These workmen without any tools. 

And to them this message convey: 
At least they might follow the rules. 

Carolyn Wells 



BALLADES 121 

BALLAD AGAINST THE ENEMIES OF FRANCE 

(Francois Villon) 

May he fall in with beasts that scatter fire, 

Like Jason, when he sought the fleece of gold, 
Or change from man to beast three years entire. 

As King Nebuchadnezzar did of old; 
Or else have times as shameful and as bad 
As Trojan folk for ravished Helen had; 
Or gulfed with Proserpine and Tantalus 
Let hell's deep fen devour him dolorous, 

With worse to bear than Job's worst sufferance, 
Bound in his prison-maze with D3:dalus, 

Who could wish evil to the state of France! 

May he four months, like bitterns in the mire, 

Howl with head downmost in the lake-springs cold. 
Or to bear harness like strong bulls for hire 

To the Great Turk for money down be sold; 
Or thirty years like Magdalen live sad. 
With neither wool nor web of linen clad; 
Drown like Narciss', or swing down pendulous 
Like Absalom with locks luxurious, 

Or like Judas fallen to reprobance; 
Or find such death as Simon sorcerous, 

Who could wish evil to the state of France! 

May the old times come of fierce Octavian's ire, 

And in his belly molten coin be told; 
May he like Victor in the mill expire 

Crushed between moving millstones on him rolled, 
Or in deep sea drenched breathless, more adrad 
Than in the whale's bulk Jonas, when God bade; 
From Pha-bus' light, from Juno's treasure-house 
Driven, and from joys of Venus amorous. 

And cursed of God most high to the utterance, 
As was the Syrian king Antiochus, 

Who could wish evil to the state of France! 



122 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



ENVOY 

Prince, may the bright-winged brood of ^^olus 
To s;a-king Glaucus' wild wood cavernous 

Bear him bereft of peace and hope's least glance, 
For worthless is he to get good of us, 

Who could wish evil to the state of France! 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



BALLADE AGAINST THE ENEMIES OF FRANCE 

(Frangois Villon) 

O may he meet with dragons belching fire, 
Like Jason, he who sought the fleece of gold; 
Or to a beast, till seven long years transpire. 
Like Nabugodonozor, king of old, 
Be changed; or smitten with as vast a woe 
As Helen's rape brought Troy-town long ago; 
Or swallowed be within those bogs of hell 
Where Tantalus and Proserpina dwell; 
More than Job's sorrows be his evil chance. 
Close-snared as Daedalus of whom men tell. 
Who could wish evil to the realm of France! 

Four months head-downward in the marsh's mire, 
Even as the bittern may he cry; or, sold 
To the Grand Turk for cash, in harness dire, 
Toil like a bull; or, as the tale is told 
Of Magdalen, for thirty long years go 
Sans wool or linen — yea! unvestured so; 
Drowned like Narcissus be he; or, as befel 
To Absalom, hang by the hair; 'twere well 
Judas' dread end were his, or circumstance 
Of horror strange as Simon Magus' spell. 
Who could wish evil to the realm of France! 



BALLADES 123 

Were but Octavius king — runs my desire — 
With molten coin, so slowly growing cold, 
To fill his belly; or might he expire 
Between revolving mill-stones crushed and rolled, 
Like good Saint Victor; or in the choking flow 
Of ocean drown, fate worse than Jonah's know 
In the great whale; him from thy light expel, 
Phoebus; and, Venus — punishment more fell — 
Deny him thy sweet self; and a outrance 
Curse him, High God, with curse inefl"able 
Who could wish evil to the realm of France! 

ENVOI 

Prince, may Eolus forth on winds compel 
His soul, where, sunk beneath the ocean's swell, 
The woods of Glaucus gloom, and never glance 
Of hope can fall — in him what good can dwell 
Who could wish evil to the realm of France! 

Richard Le Galliennc 



EPITAPH IN BALLADE FORM 

which Villon maie for himself and his friends^ waiting 
to be hanged with them. 

Brothers among men who after us shall live, 
Let not your hearts' disdain against us rise. 
For if some pity for our woe ye have 
The sooner God your pardon shall devise. 
Behold, here five or six of us we peize; 
As to our flesh, which we fed wantonly. 
Rotten, devoured, it hangeth mournfully; 
And we, the bones, to dust and ash are riven. 
Let none make scorn of our infirmity 
But pray to God that all we be forgiven. 

If, brothers, we cry out, ye should not give 
Disdain for answer, even if justice 'tis 



124 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

That murders us. This thing ye should tjelieve, 
That always all men are not wholly wise; 
Pray often for us then, not once or twice, 
Before the fair Son of the Virgin Mary, 
Lest that — for us — His grace prove injury 
And we beneath the lord- of hell be driven. 
Now we are dead, cease importunity 
And pray to God that all we be forgiven. 

The rain doth weaken all our strength and lave 

Us, the sun blackens us again and dries: 

Our eyes the ravens hollow like a grave; 

Our beards and eyebrows are plucked off by pies. 

Never rest comes to us in any wise; 

Now here, now there, as the wind sways, sway we, 

Swung at the wind's high pleasure ceaselessly. 

More pecked by birds than hazel nuts that ripen. 

Be ye not then of our fraternity, 

But pray to God that all we be forgiven. 



Prince Jesus, above all hast mastery, 
Let not high hell become our seigneury. 
There we have naught to do nor order even. 
Brothers, keep here no thought of mockery, 
But pray to God that all we be forgiven. 

Richard Aldington 



THE EPITAPH IN FORM OF A BALLAD 

which Villon made for himself and his comrades, exfecting 
to be hanged along with them. 

Men, brother men, that after us yet live. 
Let not your hearts too hard against us be; 

For if some pity of us poor men ye give. 
The sooner God shall take of you pity. 



BALLADES 125 

Here are we five or six strung up, you see, 
And here the flesh that all too well we fed 
Bit by bit eaten and rotten, rent and shred. 

And we the bones grow dust and ash withal; 
Let no man laugh at us discomforted, 

But pray to God that he forgive us all. 

If we call on you, brothers, to forgive, 

Ye should not hold our prayer in scorn, though wc 
Were slain by law; ye know that all alive 

Have not wit alway to walk righteously; 

Make therefore intercession heartily 
With him that of a virgin's womb was bred, 
That his grace be not as a dry well-head 

For us, nor let hell's thunder on us fall; 
We are dead, let no man harry or vex us dead, 

But pray to God that he forgive us all. 

The rain has washed and laundered us all five. 
And the sun dried and blackened; yea, perdie, 

Ravens and pies with beaks that rend and rive, 
Have dug our eyes out, and plucked off for fee 
Our beards and eyebrows; never are we free. 

Not once, to rest; but here and there still sped, 

Drive at its wild will by the wind's change led. 
More pecked of birds than fruits on garden-wall. 

Men, for God's love, let no gibe here be said, 
But pray to God that he forgive us all. 

Prince Jesus, that of all art lord and head, 
Keep us, that hell be not our bitter bed; 

We have nought to do in such a master's hall. 
Be not ye therefore of our fellowhead. 

But pray to God that he forgive us all. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



126 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLAD OF THE GIBBET 

An efitafh in the fortn of a ballad that Frangois Villon 
wrote of himself and his com f any, they expect- 
ing shortly to be hatiged. 

Brothers and men that shall after us be, 

Let not your hearts be hard to us: 
For pitying this our misery 

Ye shall find God the more piteous. 

Look on us six that are hanging thus, 
And for the flesh that so much we cherished 
How it is eaten of birds and perished, 

And ashes and dust fill our bones' place, 
Mock not at us that so feeble be. 

But pray God pardon us out of His Grace. 

Listen, we pray you, and look not in scorn. 

Though justly, in sooth, we are cast to diej 
Ye wot no man so wise is born 

That keeps his wisdom constantly. 

Be ye then merciful, and cry 
To Mary's Son that is piteous. 
That His mercy take no stain from us, 

Saving us out of the fiery place. 
We are but dead, let no soul deny 

To pray God succour us of His grace. 

The rain out of heaven has washed us clean, 
The sun has scorched us black and bare, 

Ravens and rocks have pecked at our eyne. 

And feathered their nests with our beards and hair, 
Round are we tossed, and here and there, 

This way and that, at the wild wind's will. 

Never a moment my body is still; 
Birds they are busy about my face. 

Live not as we, nor fare as we fare; 
Pray God pardon us out of His grace. 



BALLADES 127 



L ENVOY 

Prince Jesus, Master of all, to thee 
We pray Hell gain no mastery. 

That we come never anear that place; 
And ye men, make no mockery, 

Pray God pardon us out of His grace. 

Andrew Lang 



BALLADE DES PENDUS (GRINGOIRE) 

Where wide the forest boughs are spread, 

When Flora wakes with sylph and fay. 
Are crowns and garlands of men dead, 

All golden in the morning gay; 
Within this ancient garden grey 

Are clusters such as no man knows. 
Where Moor and Soldan bear the sway: 

This is King Louis' orchard close. 

These wretched folk wave overhead, 

With such strange thoughts as none may say; 
A moment still, then sudden sped. 

They swing in a ring and waste away. 
The morning smites them with her ray; 

They toss with every breeze that blows. 
They dance where fires of dawning play: 

This is King Louis' orchard close. 

All hanged and dead, they've summoned 

(With Hell to aid that hears them pray) 
New legions of an army dread, 

Now down the blue sky flames the day; 
The dew dries oif ; the foul array 

Of obscene ravens gathers and goes, 
With wings that flap and beaks that flay: 

This is King Louis' orchard close. 



128 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



ENVOI 

Prince, where leaves murmur of the May, 

A tree of bitter clusters grows; 
The bodies of men dead are they, 

This is King Louis' orchard close. 

Andrew Lang 



BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES* 

Ajter Villon 

Nay, tell me now in what strange air 
The Roman Flora dwells to-day. 
Where Archippiada hides, and where 
Beautiful Thais has passed away? 
Whence answers Echo, afield, astray, 
By mere or stream, — around, below? 
Lovelier she than a woman of clay; 
Nay, but where is the last year's snow? 

Where is wise Heloise, that care 
Brought on Abeilard, and dismay? 
All for her love he found a snare, 
A maimed poor monk in orders grey; 
And where's the Queen who willed to slay 
Buridan, that in a sack must go 
Afloat down Seine, — a perilous way — 
Nay, but where is the last year's snow? 

Where's that White Queen, a lily rare. 
With her sweet song, the Siren's lay? 
Where's Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice fair? 
Alys and Ermengarde, where are they? 

* From Ballades and Verses Vain by Andrew Lang. Copy- 
right 1884 by Charles Scribner's Sons, Publishers. 



BALLADES 129 

Good Joan, whom English did betray 
In Rouen town, and burned her? No, 
Maiden and Queen, no man may say; 
Nay, but where is the last year's snow? 



Prince, all this week thou need'st not pray, 
Nor yet this year the thing to know. 
One burden answers, ever and aye, 
"Nay, but where is the last year's snow?" 

Andrew Lang 

BALLAD OF THE LORDS OF OLD TIME 

What more? Where is the third Calixt, 
Last of that name now dead and gone. 

Who held four years the Papalist? 
Alphonso king of Aragon, 
The gracious lord, duke of Bourbon, 

And Arthur, duke of old Britaine? 

And Charles the Seventh, that worthy one? 

Even with the good knight Charlemain. 

The Scot, too, king of mount and mist, 

With half his face vermilion. 
Men tell us, like an amethyst 

From brow to chin that blazed and shone; 

The Cypriote king of old renown, 
Alas! and that good king of Spain, 

Whose name I cannot think upon? 
Even with the good knight Charlemain. 

No more to say of them I list; 

'Tis all but vain, all dead and done: 
For death may no man born resist, 

Nor make appeal when death comes on. 

I make yet one more question ; 
Where's Lancelot, king of far Bohain? 

Where's he whose grandson called him son? 
Even with the good knight Charlemain. 



130 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Where is Guesclin, the good Breton? 

The lord of the eastern mountain-chain, 
And the good late duke of Alengon? 

Even with the good knight Charlemain. 

Algernon Charles Szvinburne 



BALLAD OF THE WOMEN OF PARIS 

Albeit the Venice girls get praise 

For their sweet speech and tender air. 
And tho' the old women have wise ways 

Of chaffering for amorous ware, 

Yet at my peril dare I swear, 
Search Rome, where God's grace mainly tarries, 

Florence and Savoy, everywhere, 
There's no good girl's lip out of Paris. 

The Naples women, as folk prattle, 

Are sweetly spoken and subtle enough: 
German girls are good at tattle, 

And Prussians make their boast thereof; 

Take Egypt for the next remove. 
Or that waste land the Tartar harries, 

Spain or Greece, for the matter of love, 
There's no good girl's lip out of Paris. 

Breton and Swiss know nought of the matter, 

Gascony girls or girls of Toulouse; 
Two fishwomen with a half hour's chatter 

Would shut them up by threes and twos; 

Calais, Lorraine, and all their crews, 
(Names enow the mad song marries) 

England and Picardy, search them and choose. 
There's no good girl's lip out of Paris. 

Prince, give praise to our French ladies 
For the sweet sound their speaking carries; 

'Twixt Rome and Cadiz many a maid is. 
But no good girl's lip out of Paris. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



BALLADES 131 

BALLAD WRITTEN FOR A BRIDEGROOM 

lu/ikh Villon gave to a gentlemayi neiuly married to send, to 
his zvife whom he had won with the sword. 

At daybreak, when the falcon claps his wings, 
No whit for grief, but noble heart and high, 
With loud glad noise he stirs himself and springs, 
And takes his meat and toward his lure draws nigh; 
Such good I wish you! Yea, and heartily 
I am fired with hope of true love's meed to getj 
Know that Love writes it in his book; for why. 
This is the end for which we twain are met. 

Mine own heart's lady with no gainsayings 
You shall be always wholly till I die; 
And in my right against all bitter things 
Sweet laurel with fresh rose its force shall try; 
Seeing reason wills not that I cast love by 
(Nor here with reason shall I chide or fret) 
Nor cease to serve, but serve more constantly; 
This is the end for which we twain are met. 

And, which is more, when grief about me clings 
Through Fortune's fit and fume of jealousy. 
Your sweet kind eye beats down her threatenings 
As wind doth smoke; such power sits in your eye. 
Thus in your field my seed of harvestry 
Thrives, for the fruit is like me that I set; 
God bids me tend it with good husbandry; 
This is the end for which we twain are met. 

Princess, give ear to this my summary; 

That heart of mine your heart's love should forget, 

Shall never be; like trust in you put I: 

This is the end for which we twain are met. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



132 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

A BALLAD OF FRANCOIS VILLON 

Prince of all Ballad-Makers 

Bird of the bitter bright grey golden morn 
Scarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous years, 

First of us all and sweetest singer born 

Whose far shrill note the world of new men hears 
Cleave the cold shuddering shade as twilight clearsj 

When song new-born put off the old world's attire 

And felt its tune on her changed lips expire, 
Writ foremost on the roll of them that came 

Fresh girt for service of the latter lyre, 

Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name! 

Alas the joy, the sorrow, and the scorn. 

That clothed thy life with hopes and sins and fears, 1 
And gave thee stones for bread and tares for corn 

And plume-plucked jail-birds for thy starveling peers 

Till death dipt close their flight with shameful shears; 
Till shifts came short and loves were hard to hire, 
When lilt of song nor twitch of twangling wire 

Could buy thee bread or kisses; when light fame 
Spurned like a ball and haled through brake and briar, 

Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name! 

Poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled and torn! 
Poor kind wild eyes so dashed with light quick tears! 

Poor perfect voice, most blithe when most forlorn. 
That rings athwart the sea whence no man steers 
Like joy-bells crossed with death-bells in our ears! 

What far delight has cooled the fierce desire 
That like some ravenous bird was strong to tire 
On that frail flesh and soul consumed with flame, 

But left more sweet than roses to respire, 
Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name? 

ENVOI 

Prince of sweet songs made out of tears and fire, 
A harlot was thy nurse, a God thy sire; 



BALLADES I33 

Shame soiled thy song, and song assoiled thy shame. 
But from thy feet now death has washed the mire, 
Love reads out first at head of all our quire, 

Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



ALAS, FOR THE FLEET WINGS OF TIME 
(Ballade to Frangois Villon) 

Where, prithee, are thy comrades bold 

With ruffle and with furbelow, 
Who, in the merry days of old, 

Made light of all but red wine's flow? 

Where now are cavalier and beau 
Who joyed with thee in that bright clime? 

Ah, dust to dust! — and none may know! — 
Alas, for the fleet wings of Time! 

Where now are they that gleaming gold 

Led on to many a bandit blow, 
Who roamed with thee the vine-clad wold 

And shadowed vales, and shared thy woe? 

Where they who in the sunset glow 
With thee heard Paris' sweet bells chime? 

Ah, they are gone! — and still men go! — 
Alas, for the fleet wings of Time! 

And where are they, those maids untold. 

Thy lighter loves, each one thy foe? 
No more are they than crumbled mold, 

With earth above and earth below; 

And she who won, aside to throw 
Thy love, the promise of thy prime, 

Doth any seek her name? ah, no! 

Alas, for the fleet wings of Time! 



134 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Singer of ballade and rondeau, 

Deft shaper of the dancing rhyme, 

TAy name alone survives the snow; — 
Alas, for the fleet wings of Time! 

Clinton Scollard 



VILLON QUITS FRANCE 

"Demain tous nous mourronsj c'est juste notre affaire." 

— Theodore Passer at. 

We hang to-morrow, then? That doom is fit 
For most of us, I think. Yet, harkee, friend, 
I have a ballad here which I have writ 
Of us and our high ending. Pray you, send 
The scrawl to Cayeux, bidding him commend 
Frangois to grace. Old Colin loves me well, 
For no good reason, save it so befell 
We two were young together. . . . When I am hung, 
Colin will weep — and then will laugh, and tell 
How many pranks we played when we were young. 

Dear lads of yesterday! . . . We had no wit 
To live always so we might not offend. 
Yet — how we laughed! I marvel now at it, 
Because that merry company will spend 
No more mad nights together. Some are penned 
In abbeys, some in dungeons, others fell 
In battle. . . . Time assesses death's gabelle, — 
Salt must be taxed, eh? — well, we ranked among 
The salt of earth, once, who are old and tell 
How many pranks we played when we were young. 

Afraid to die, you ask? — Why, not a whit. 
Ah, no! whole-heartedly I mean to wend 
Out of a world I have found exquisite 
By every testing. For I apprehend 
Life was not made all lovely to the end 
That life ensnare us, nor the miracle 



BALLADES 135 

Of youth devised but as a trap to swell 
Old Legion's legions; and must give full tongue 
To praise no less than prayer, when bidden tell 
How many pranks we played when we were young. 

Nay, cheerily we of the Cockle-shell, 
And all whose youth was nor to stay nor quell, 
Will dare foregather when earth's knell is rung, 
And Calvary's young conqueror bids us tell 
How many pranks we played when we were young. 

James Branch Cabell 



RONSARD RE-VOICES A TRUISM 

"Quand vous serez bien vieille, at quand je serais mort." 

— Theodore Passerat. 

When you are very old, and I am gone, 
Not" to return, it may be you will say — 
Hearing my name and holding me as one 
Long dead to you, — in some half-jesting way 
Of speech, sweet as vague heraldings of May 
Rumored in woods when first the throstles sing: — 
He loved me once. And straightway murmuring 
My half- forgotten rhymes, you will regret 
Evanished times when I was wont to sing 
So very lightly. Love runs into debt. 

I shall not heed you then. My course being run 
For good or ill, I shall have gone my way. 
And know you, love, no longer, — nor the sun, 
Perchance, nor any light of earthly day. 
Nor any joy nor sorrow, — while at play 
The world speeds merrily, nor reckoning 
Our coming or our going. Lips will cling, 
Forswear, and be forsaken, and men forget 
Where once our tombs were, and our children sing- 
So very lightly! — Love runs into debt. 



136 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

If in the grave love have dominion 
Will that wild cry not quicken the wise clay, 
And taunt with memories of fond deeds undone — 
Some joy untasted, some lost holiday, — 
All death's large wisdom? Will that wisdom lay 
The ghost of any sweet familiar thing 
Come haggard from the Past, or ever bring 
Forgetfulness of those two lovers met 
When all was April? — nor too wise to sing 
So very lightly, Loiye runs into debt. 

Yea, though the years of vain remembering 
Draw nigh, and age be drear, yet in the spring 
We meet and kiss, whatever hour be set 
Wherein all hours attain to harvesting, — 
So very lightly Love runs into debt. 

James Branch Cabell 



BALLADE OF WOMEN 
(Theodore de Banmlle) 

My friend, from China to Peru, 

And where the Baltic breezes blow, 
There's many a dainty Kate and Prue, 

Full worth thy wandering to and fro: 

And Buda hath, like Bergamo, 
Her nymphs whose glance enchantment carries 

But woman — would you call her so — 
Woman, my friend, is ware of Paris! 

We of her flock are tried and true. 

With rose and frill and flounce and bow, 
She's passing dainty to the view: 

To slander her is woe on woe: 

For like the poster of a show 
She lies; and ne'er her tongue miscarries 

Once it is set against a foe, 
— ^Woman, my friend, is ware of Paris! 



BALLADES 137 

The dress she wears hath fairy hue, 

The fare she craves is light as snow, 
The lore she reads is strange and new. 

The plays she loves with passion glow! 

She for whom lofty Troy lay low 
Loved fewer than mylady marries, 

For plainly would I have you know 
Woman, my friend, is ware of Paris! 



Fair Sir, from this I may not go — 
Behind the worth of woman tarries 

The utmost praise of man: but, oh. 
Woman, my friend, is ware of Paris! 

Archibald T. Strong 



BALLADE OF THE NIGHTINGALE 

(Theodore de Banville) 

Two lonely lovers, young and lovely, stray 
Beneath the hawthorn by the river's flow. 

He blithe and gallant as a summer's day. 

She, lingering still with pensive step and slow, 
Albeit her eyes with tender radiance glow. 
The magic time of song and passion nears. 
Beside his lady, that with rapture hears. 

His song up-soaring from the listening vale. 

Hark! To the stars he loves, his radiant peers, 

Deep in the forest sings the nightingale. 

Swift spells of love her maiden spirit sway. 
Her lovely body thrills in passion's throe. 

She quivers as the hawthorn's dancing spray 
Upon her eyes joy and enchantment grow. 
Her fairy hand, whiter than purest snow. 
An instant on the moonlit sward appears, 



138 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

And o'er the beck there streameth on her ears 
The shower of liquid song that fills the vale 

With fire and anguish of the vanished years — 
Deep in the forest sings the nightingale. 

They whisper soft: the furtive airs at play 
Pass--on their brows divinely to and fro: 

She swoons for joy and fear: and 'neath the may 
Where slow and still the drowsy waters go 
Fast in her lover's arms she lieth low. 
Flecked with the sheen that through the coppice peers 
And wooed of every wind that shifts and veers, 

Shaken, exultant, in the moonlight pale. 

His neck a-glitter with the evening's tears, 

Deep in the forest sings the nightingale. 



ENVOI 

His burst of passionate grief the bird uprears; 

Then, mazed with all, the magic of the spheres. 
He stays his song, and swift from heaven doth fail 

The glory that the soul of Love reveres: 
Deep in the forest sings the nightingale. 

Archibald T. Strong 



BALLADE FOR THE LAUREATE 

(After Theodore de Banville) 

Rhyme, in a late disdainful age, 

Hath many and many an eager knight, 
Each man of them, to print his page. 

From every quarter wings his flight! 
What tons of manuscript alight 

Here in the Row, how many a while 
For all can rhyme, when all can write — 

The master's yonder in the Isle! 



BALLADES 139 

Like Otus some, with giant rage, 

But scarcely with a giant's might, 
Ossa on Pel ion engage 

To pile, and scale Parnassus' height! 

And some, with subtle nets and slight, 
Entangle rhymes exceeding vile,* 

And wond'rous adjectives unite — 
The master's yonder in the Isle! 

Alas, the Muse they cannot cage 

These poets in a sorry plight! 
Vain is the weary war they wage. 

In vain they curse the Critic's spite! 
While' grammar some neglect outright. 

While others polish with the tile. 
The Fates contrive their toil to blight — 

The master's yonder in the Isle! 



Prince, Arnold's jewel-work is bright, 
And Browning, in his iron style. 

Doth gold on his rude anvil smite — 
The master's yonder in the Isle! 

Andrew Lang 



THE BALLAD OF MELICERTES 

In Memory of Theodore de Banville 

Death, a light outshining life, bids heaven resume 
Star by star the souls whose light made earth divine. 

Death, a night outshining day, sees burn and bloom 
Flower by flower, and sun by sun, the fames that shine 
Deathless, higher than life beheld their sovereign sign. 

Dead Simonides of Ceos, late restored, 

♦ For example 'dawning' and 'warning.' 



140 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Given again of God, again hy man deplored, 
Shone but yestereve, a glory frail as breath. 

Frail? But Fame's breath quickens, kindles, keeps in ward. 
Life so sweet as this that dies and casts off death. 

Mother's love, and rapture of the sea, whose womb 
Breads eternal life of joy that stings like brine, 

Pride of song, and joy to dare the singer's doom. 
Sorrow soft as sleep and laughter bright as wine. 
Flushed and filled with fragrant fire his lyric line. 

As the sea-shell utters, like a stricken chord. 

Music uttering all the sea's within it stored. 

Poet well-beloved, whose praise our sorrow saith, 

So thy songs retain thy soul, and so record 

Life so sweet as this that dies and casts off death. 

Side by side we mourned at Gautier's golden tomb: 
Here in spirit now I stand and mourn at thine. 

Yet no breath of death strikes thence, no shadow of 
gloom, 
Only light more bright than gold of the inmost mine, 
Only steam of incense warm from love's own shrine. 

Not the darkling stream, the sundering Stygian ford. 

Not the hour that smites and severs as a sword, 
Not the night subduing light that perisheth. 

Smite, subdue, divide from us by doom abhorred. 
Life so sweet as this that dies and casts off death. 

Prince of song more sweet than honey, lyric lord. 
Not thy France here only mourns a light adored, 

One whose love-lit fame the world inheriteth. 
Strangers too, now brethren, hail with heart's accord 

Life so sweet as this that dies and casts off death. 
Algernon Charles Swinburne 



BALLADES 14-1 

THEODORE DE BANVILLE 
BALLADE 

For the Funeral of the Last of the Joyous Poets. 

One ballade more before we say good-night, 

O dying Muse, one mournful ballade more! 
Then let the new men fall to their delight. 

The Impressionist, the Decadent, a score 

Of other fresh fanatics, who adore 
Quaint demons, and disdain thy golden shrine; 
Ah! faded goddess, thou wert held divine 

When we were young! But now each laurelled head 
Has fallen, and fallen the ancient glorious line; 

The last is gone, since Banville too is dead. 

Peace, peace a moment, dolorous Ibsenite! 

Pale Tolstoist, moaning from the Euxine shore! 
Psychology, to dreamland take thy flight! 

And, fell Heredity, forbear to pour 

Drop after drop thy dose of hellebore. 
For we look back to-night to ruddier wine 
And gayer singing than these moans of thine! 

Our skies were azure once, our roses red, 
Our poets once were crowned with eglantine; 

The last is gone, since Banville too is dead. 

With flutes and lyres and many a lovely rite 

Through the mad woodland of our youth they bore 

Verse, like pure ichor in a chrysolite. 

Secret yet splendid, and the world forswore, 
For one brief space, the mocking mask it wore. 

Then failed, then fell those children of the vine,— 

Sons of the sun, — and sank in slow decline; 

Pulse after pulse their radiant lives were shed; 

To silence we their vocal names consign; 
The last is gone, since Banville too is dead. 



142 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



ENVOI 

Prince-jeweller, whose facet-rhymes combine 
All hues that glow, all rays that shift and shine, 

Farewell ! thy song is sung, thy splendour fled. 
No -bards to Aganippe's wave incline; 

The last is gone, since Banville too is dead. 

Edmund Gosse 



BALLADE DES ENFANTS SANS SOUCI 

(From Albert Glatigny) 

These children, oftener barefoot wayfaring, 

For winter gloves wear a numb finger-ache, 

Sup on a draught of air at evening, 

And on their brows the ragged north winds rake 

Loud-chiding, as when armies onset make. 

But little better can it them befall 

When flying April the dry earth shall slake. 

— They take no thought. Your pity on them all! 

When at the starry hollow's quivering 
Their clear eyes dance and lighten like .* lake, 
They have no more than a worm's covering. 
Onward and outward where the sheer hills break, 
On down the vale! But all men answer make — 
"You little birds, one further flight must take!" 
— They take no thought. Your pity on them all! 

Such death of cold must their poor bodies wring! 
Their blood is iced and curdled to a cake. 
All hearts shut to them with an iron spring. 
And unsepulchered lie they in the brake. 
Or meadow, where they moulder till they wake. 
To that stark eupper then the crows will fall ; 
Snow-showers shall wash them, falling flake by flake. 
— They take no thought. Your pity on them all! 



BALLADES \Ui 



ENVOY 



This life is one long web of bale and ache. 
Only t 'thank you' canst thou hear them call, 
O outcast song, made outcast for their sake! 
—They take no thought. Your pity on them all! 

O. Elton 



THE BALLAD OF DEAD CITIES 
To A. L. 

Where are the cities of the plain? 

And where the shrines of rapt Bethell! 
And Calah built of Tubal-Cain? 

And Shinar whence King Amraphel 

Came out in arms, and fought, and fell, 
Decoyed into the pits of slime 

By Siddim, and sent sheer to hell; 
Where are the cities of old time? 

Where now is Karnak, that great fane 

With granite built, a miracle? 
And Luxor smooth without a stain, 

Whose graven scriptures still we spell? 

The jackal and the owl may tell. 
Dark snakes around their ruins climb, 

They fade like echo in a shell; 
Where are the cities of old time? 

And where is white Shushan, again, 
Where Vashti's beauty bore the bell, 

And all the Jewish oil and grain 
Were brought to Mithridath to sell. 
Where Nehemiah would not dwell, 

Because another town sublime 
Decoyed him with her oracle? 

Where are the cities of old time? 



144 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



ENVOI 

Prince, with a dolorous, ceaseless knell, 

Above their wasted toil and crime 
The waters of oblivion swell; 
v Where are the cities of old time? 

Edmund Gosse 



BALLADE OF DEAD CITIES * 

To E. W. Gosse 

The dust of Carthage and the dust 
Of Babel on the desert wold, 
The loves of Corinth, and the lust, 
Orchomenos increased with gold; 
The town of Jason, over-bold. 
And Cherson, smitten in her prime — 
What are they but a dream half-told? 
Where are the cities of old time? 

In towns that were a kingdom's trust, 
In dim Atlantic forests' fold. 
The marble wasteth to a crust, 
The granite crumbles into mould; 
O'er these — left nameless from of old — 
As over Shinar's brick and slime, 
One vast forgetfulness is roll'd — 
Where are the cities of old time? 

The lapse of ages, and the rust, 
The fire, the frost, the waters cold, 
Efface the evil and the just; 
From Thebes, that Eriphyle sold, 

* From Ballades and Verses Vain by Andrew Lang'. Copy- 
right 1884 by Charles Scribner's Sons, Publishers. 



BALLADES 145 

To drown'd Caer-Is, whose sweet bells toll'd 
Beneath the wave a dreamy chime 
That echo'd from the mountain-hold, — 
"Where are the cities of old time?" 



Prince, all thy towns and cities must 
Decay as these, till all their crime. 
And mirth, and wealth, and toil are thrust 
Where are the cities of old time. 

Andrew Lang 



WHERE ARE THE SHIPS OF TYRE? 

Hark, how the surges dash 

On Tyrian beaches hoar! 
With far-resounding crash, 

And unremitting roar. 

The white foam-squadrons pour 
Their ranks with sullen ire 

Along the sandy floor; 
"Where are the ships of Tyre?" 

Within her walls the clash 

Of arms is heard no more; 
No supple bough of ash 

Is hewn for mast or oar; 

Through no tall temple's door 
Now gleams the altar fire. 

But winds and waves deplore, 
"Where are the ships of Tyre?" 

By night no torches flash 
From porches as of yore; 

'Neath sword or stinging lash 

No slave now lies in gore; ^ 



146 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

No voice that men adore 
Lifts song to lute or lyre; 

With all the freight they bore 
"Where are the ships of Tyre?" 



^ ENVOY 

Prince, with those "gone before," 
We, whom these days inspire. 

Must seek that unknown shore 
"Where are the ships of Tyre." 
Clinton Scollard 



DEAD POETS 

Where be they that once would sing, 
Poets passed from wood and dale? 

Faintly, now, we touch the string. 
Faithless, now, we seek the Grail: 
Shakspeare, Spenser, nought avail, 

Herrick, England's Oberon, 

Sidney, smitten through his mail. 

Souls of Poets dead and gone! 

Ronsard's Roses blossoming 

Long are faded, long are frail; 
Gathered to the heart of Spring 

He that sang the breezy flail. 

Ah! could prayer at all prevail, 
These should shine where once they shone. 

These should 'scape the shadowy pale — 
Souls of Poets dead and gone! 

What clear air knows Dante's wing? 

What new seas doth Homer sail? 
By what waters wandering 

Tells Theocritus his tale? 



BALLADES 147 

Still, when cries the Nightingale, 
Singing, sobbing, on and on, 

Her brown feathers seem to veil 
Souls of Poets dead and gone! 

Charon, when my ghost doth hail 

O'er Cocytus' waters wan, 
Land me where no storms assail 

Souls of Poets dead and gone. 

Graham R. Tomson 



A BALLAD OF APPEAL 
To Christina G. Rossetti 

Song wakes with every wakening year 
From hearts of birds that only feel 

Brief spring's deciduous flower-time near: 
And song more strong to help or heal 
Shall silence worse than winter seal? 

From love-lit thought's remurmuring cave 

The notes that rippled, wave on wave, 
Were clear as love, as faith were strong; 

And all souls blessed the soul that gave 
Sweet water from the well of song. 



All hearts bore fruit of joy to hear, 
All eyes felt mist upon them steal 

For joy's sake, trembling toward a tear, 
When, loud as marriage-bells that peal, 
Or flutelike soft, or keen like steel, 

Sprang the sheer music; sharp or grave. 

We heard the drift of winds that drave. 

And saw, swept round by ghosts in throng, 

Dark rocks, that yielded, where they clave, 
Sweet water from the well of song. 



1+8 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Blithe verse made all the dim sense clear 
That smiles of babbling babes conceal: 

Prayer's perfect heart spake here: and here 
Rose notes of blameless woe and weal, 
More soft than this poor song's appeal. 

Where orchards bask, where cornfields wave, 

They dropped like rains that cleanse and lave, 
And scattered all the year along, 

Like dewfall on an April grave. 

Sweet water from the well of song. 

Ballad, go bear our prayer, and crave 
Pardon, because thy lowlier stave 

Can do this plea no right, but wrong. 
Ask nought beside thy pardon, save 

Sweet water from the well of song. 

Algernon Charles Szvifiburne 



HEARTSEASE COUNTRY 

To Isabel Szcinburne 

The far green westward heavens are bland, 
The far green Wiltshire downs are clear 

As these deep meadows hard at hand; 
The sight knows hardly far from near. 
Nor morning joy from evening cheer. 

In cottage garden-plots their bees 

Find many a fervent flower to seize 
And strain and drain the heart away 

From ripe sweet-williams and sweet-peas 
At every turn on every way. 

But gladliest seems one flower to expand 
Its whole sweet heart all round us here; 

'Tis Heartsease Country, Pansy Land. 
Nor sounds nor savors harsh and drear 
Where engines yell and halt and veer 

Can vex the sense of him who sees 



BALLADES 149 

One flower-plot midway, that for trees 
Has poles, and sheds all grimed or gray 

For bowers like those that take the breeze 
At every turn on every way. 

Content even there they smile and stand, 

Sweet thought's heart-easing flowers, nor fear, 
With reek and roaring steam though fanned, 

Nor shrink nor perish as they peer. 

The heart's eye holds not those more dear 
That glow between the lanes and leas 
Where'er the homeliest hand may please 

To bid them blossom as they may 
Where light approves and wind agrees 

At every turn on every way. 

Sister, the word of winds and seas 
Endures not as the word of these 

Your wayside flowers whose breath would say 
How hearts that love may find heart's ease 

At every turn on every way. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



BALLADE OF DEAD ACTORS 

To E. J. H. 

Where are the passions they essayed^ 
And where the tears they made to flow? 
Where the wild humours they portrayed 
For kughing worlds to see and know? 
Othello's wrath and Juliet's woe? 
Sir Peter's whims and Timon's gall? 
And Millamant and Romeo? 
Into the night go one and all. 

Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed? 
The plumes, the armours — friend and foe? 
The cloth of gold, the rare brocade. 
The mantles glittering to and fro? 



.150 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

The pomp, the pride, the royal show? 
The cries of war and festival? 
The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow? 
Into the night go one and all. 

The curtain falls, the play is played: 
The Beggar packs beside the Beau; 
The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid; 
The Thunder huddles with the Snow. 
Where are the revellers high and low? 
The clashing swords? The lover's call? 
The dancers gleaming row on row? 
Into the night go one and all. 

ENVOY 

Prince, in one common overthrow 
The Hero tumbles with the Thrall; 
As dust that drives, as straws that blow. 
Into the night go one and all. 

W. E. Henley 



A BALLADE OF KINGS 

Where are the mighty Icings of yore 

Whose sword-arm cleft the world in twain? 
And where are they who won and wore 

The empire of the land and main? 

Where's Alexander, Charlemain? 
Alone the sky above them brings 

Their tombs the tribute of the rain. 
Dust in dust are the bones of kings! 

Where now is Rome's old emperor, 

Who gazed on burning Rome full fain; 
And where, at one for evermore, 

The Liege of France, the Lord of Spain? 

What of Napoleon's lightning brain, 
Grim Fritz's iron hammerings. 

Forging the links of Europe's chain? 
Dust in dust are the bones of kings! 



BALLADES 151 

Where, 'neath what ravenous curses sore. 

Hath Well-Loved Louis lapsed and lain? 
Where is the Lion-Heart, who bore 

The spears toward Zion's gate again? 

And can so little space contain. 
Quiet from all his wanderings, 

The world-demanding Tamburlaine? 
Dust in dust are the bones of kings! 



O Kings, bethink ye then how vain 

The pride and pomp of earthly things: 

A little pain, a little gain, 

Then dust in dust are the bones of kings. 

Arthur Symons 

BALLADE OF DEAD POETS 

Theocritus, who bore 

The lyre where sleek herds graze 
On the Sicilian shore, 

(There yet the shepherd strays) — 

And Horace, crowned with bays. 
Who dwelt by Tiber's flow, 

Sleep through the silent days — ^ 
For God will have it so! 

The bard, whose requiem o'er 

And o'er the sad sea plays. 
Who sang of classic lore. 

Of Mab, the queen of fays— 

And Keats, fair Adonais, 
The child of song and woe. 

No longer thread life's maze — 
For God will have it so! 

Your voices, sweet of yore, 

With honied word and phrase. 

Are heard by men no more. 
They list to other lays — 



152 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

New poets now have praise, 
But all in turn must go 

To follow in your ways — 
For God will have it so! 



Poets, the thrones ye raise 
Are not a "fleeting show;" 

Fame lives, though dust decays — 
For God will have it so! 

Clinton Scollard 



BALLADE OF OLD PLAYS * 
To Brander Matthews 

(Les CEuvres de Monsieur Moliere. A Paris, chez Louys 
Billaine, a la Palme. M. D. C. LXVI) 

LA COUR 

When these Old Plays were new, the King, 

Beside the Cardinal's chair, 

Applauded, 'mid the courtly ring, 

The verses of Moliere; 

Point-lace was then the only wear. 

Old Corneille came to woo, 

And bright Du Pare was young and fair, 

When these Old Plays were new! 

LA COMEDIE 

How shrill the butcher's cat-calls ring. 
How loud the lackeys swear! 
Black pipe-bowls on the stage they fling. 
At Brecourt, fuming there! 

* From Ballades and Verses Vain by Andrew Lang. Copy- 
right 1884 by Charles Scribner's Sons, Publishers. 



BALLADES 153 



The Porter's stabbed! a Mousquetaire 
Breaks in with noisy crew — 
'Twas all a commonplace affair 
When these Old Plays were new! 



LA VILLE 



When these Old Plays were new! They bring 

A host of phantoms rare: 

Old jests that float, old jibes that sting, 

Old faces peaked with care: 

Menage's smirk, de Vise's stare. 

The thefts of Jean Ribou, — * 

Ah, publishers were hard to bear 

When these Old Plays were new. 



Ghosts, at your Poet's word ye dare 
To break Death's dungeons through, 
And frisk, as in that golden air. 
When these Old Plays were new! 

Andrew La?ig 

ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO THE 
MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR 

Chicken-skin, delicate, white. 

Painted by Carlo Van loo. 
Loves in a riot of light, 

Roses and vaporous blue; 

Hark to the dainty frou-frou! 
Picture above if you can. 

Eyes that could melt as the dew, — 
This was the Pompadour's fan! 

See how they rise at the sight. 

Thronging the CE/Y de Boeuf through, 

Courtiers as butterflies bright, 
Beauties that Fragonard drew, 

* A knavish publisher. 



154 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Talon-rouge, falbala, queue, 
Cardinal, Duke, — to a man, 

Eager to sigh or to sue, — 
This was the Pompadour's fan! 

Ah! but things more than polite 
•-v^ Hung on this toy, voyez-vous! 
Matters of state and of might, 

Things that great ministers do; 

Things that, maybe, overthrew 
Those in whose brains they began; 

Here was the sign and the cue, — 
This was the Pompadour's fan! 



Where are the secrets it knew? 

Weavings of plot and of plan? 
-^But where is the Pompadour, too? 

This was the Pompadour's Fan! 

Austin Dob son 

BALLADE OF ANTIQUE DANCES 

Before the town had lost its wits, 

And scared the bravery from its beaux- 

When money-grubs were merely cits. 
And verse was crisp and clear as prose. 
Ere Chloe and Strephon came to blows 

For votes, degrees, and cigarettes. 
The world rejoiced to point its toes 

In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets. 

The solemn fiddlero touch their kits; 

The twinkling clavichord o'erflows 
With contrapuntal quirks and hits; 

And, with all measure and repose. 

Through figures grave as royal shows. 
With noble airs and pirouettes. 

They move, to rhythms Handel knows, 
In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets. 



BALLADES 155 

O Fans and Swords, O Sacques and Mits, 
That was the better part you chose! 

You know not how those gamesome chits 
Waltz, Polka, and Schottische arose, 
Or how Quadrille — a kind of doze 

In time and tune — the dance besets; 
You aired your fashion till the close 

In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets. 

ENVOY 

Muse of the many-twinkling hose, 
Terpsichore, O teach your pets 

The charm that shines, the grace that glows 
In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets. 

W. E. Henley 

BALLADE OF A TOYOKUNI COLOUR PRINT 

To W. A. 

Was I a Samurai renowned, 
Two-sworded, fierce, immense of bow? 
A histrion angular and profound? 
A priest? a porter? — Child, although 
I have forgotten clean, I know 
That in the shade of Fujisan, 
What time the cherry-orchards blow, 
I loved you once in old Japan. 

As here you loiter, flowing-gowned 

And hugely sashed, with pins a-row 

Your quaint head as with flamelets crowned, 

Demure, inviting — even so, 

When merry maids in Miyako 

To feel the sweet o' the year began, 

And green gardens to overflow, 

I loved you once in old Japan. 

Clear shine the hills; the rice-fields round 
Two cranes are circling; sleepy and slow, 
A blue canal the lake's blue bound 
Breaks at the bamboo bridge; and lo! 



156 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Touched with the sundown's spirit and glow, 
I see you turn, with flirted fan, 
Against the plum-tree's bloomy snow .. . . 
I loved you once in old Japan! 

ENVOY 

Dear, 'twas a dozen lives ago; 
But that I was a lucky man 
The Toyokuni here will show: 
I loved you — once — in old Japan. 

W. E. Henley 



BALLADE OF THE UNCHANGING BEAUTY 

On every wind there comes the dolorous cry 

Of change, and rumour vast of fair things sped, 

And old perfections loudly doomed to die; 
Axes agleam and running torches red, 
And voices shrilling, "The old world is dead!" 

Yet little heed to all this noise I pay, 

But lift my eyes where, walking overhead, 

The moon goes silently upon her way. 

For what concern with all this change have I, 

Knowing the same wild words of old were said? 
For change, too, changes not; yea, this old sky 

Watches mankind the same vain pathway tread. 

So long ago thrones crashed, and nations bled, 
Yet the old world stole back at close of day, 

And on the morrow men rose up to wed — 
The moon goes silently upon her way. 

Abbess of all yon cloistered worlds on highy 

Upon my heart your benediction shed. 
Help me to put the idle turmoil by. 

And on the changeless be my spirit fed; 

O be my footsteps on that pathway led 
Where Beauty steals among the stars to pray; 

And, sorrowing earth, in this be comforted — 
The moon goes silently upon her way. 



BALLADES 157 



ENVOI 

Prince, toss not too uneasy on your bed, 
Fearing your little crown be reft away; 

Wear this undying wreath I weave instead — 
The moon goes silently upon her way. 

Richard Le Gallienne 

BALLADE OF THE SONG OF THE SEA-WIND* 

What is the song the sea-wind sings — 
The old, old song it singeth for aye? 

When abroad it stretcheth its mighty wings 
And driveth the white clouds far away, — 
What is the song it sings to-day? 

From fire and tumult the white world came, 
Where all was a mist of driven sfray 
And the whirling fragments of a frame! 

What is the song the sea-wind sings — 
The old, old song it singeth for aye? 

It seems to breathe a thousand things 

Ere the world grew sad and old and grey — 
Of the dear gods banished far astray — 

Of strange wild rumours of joy and shame! 
The Earth is old, so old. To-day — 
Blind and halt and weary and lame. 

What is the song the sea-wind sings — 
The old, old song it singeth for aye? 

Like a trumpet blast its voice out-rings, 
The zvorld sfins down the darksome way! 
It crieth aloud in dark dismay, 

The Earth that from fire and tumult came 
Draws swift to her weary end To-day, 
Her fires are fusing for that last Flannel 

* This poem belongs in the division in which Adaptations 
are included. 



158 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



ENVOY 

What singeth the sea-wind thus for aye — 

From fire and tumult the white world came! 

What is the sea-wind's cry To-day — 
Her central fires make one vast fiame! 

William Shar^p 



BALLADE OF THE SEA-FOLK 

Where are the creatures of the deep, 

That made the sea-world wondrous fair? 

The dolphins that with royal sweep 
Sped Venus of the golden hair 
Through leagues of summer sea and air? 

Are they all gone where past things be? 
The merman in his weedy lair? 
O sweet wild creatures of the sea! 

O singing syrens, do ye weep 
That now ye hear not anywhere 

The swift oars of the seamen leap. 
See their wild, eager eyes a-stare? 
O syrens, that no more ensnare 

The souls of men that once were free, 
Are ye not filled with cold despair — 
O sweet wild creatures of the sea! 

O Triton, on some coral steep 

In green-gloom depths, dost thou forbear 
With wreathed horn to call thy sheep, 

The wandering sea-waves, to thy care? 

O mermaids, once so debonnair, 
Sport ye no more with mirthful glee? 

The ways of lover- folk forswear? — 

O sweet wild creatures of the sea! 



BALLADES 159 



Deep down 'mid coral caves, beware! 

They wait a day that yet must be, 
When Ocean shall be earth's sole heir — 

O sweet wild creatures of the sea! 

William Sharf 

A BALLAD OF SARK 

High beyond the granite portal arched across, 
Like the gateway of some godlike giant's hold 

Sweep and swell the billowy breasts of moor and moss 
East and westward, and the dell their slopes enfold 
Basks in purple, glows in green, exults in gold. 

Glens that know the dove and fells that hear the lark 

Fill with joy the rapturous island, as an ark 

Full of spicery wrought from herb and flower and tree. 

None would dream that grief even here may disembark 
On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea. 

Rocks emblazoned like the mid shield's royal boss 
Take the sun with all their blossom broad and bold. 

None would dream that all this moorland's glow and gloss 
Could be dark as tombs that strike the spirit acold, 
Even in eyes that opened here, and here behold 

Now no sun relume from hope's belated spark. 

Any comfort, nor may ears of mourners hark 

Though the ripe woods ring with golden-throated glee, 

While the soul lies shattered, like a stranded bark 
On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea. 

Death and doom are they whose crested triumphs toss 
On the proud plumed waves whence mourning notes 
are tolled. 

Wail of perfect woe and moan for utter loss 

Raise the bride-song through the graveyard on the wold 
Where the bride-bed keeps the bridegroom fast in mould. 

Where the bride, with death for priest and doom for clerk, 



160 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Hears for choir the throats of waves like wolves that bark, 
Sore anhungered, off the drear Eperquerie, 

Fain to spoil the strongholds of the strength of Sark 
On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea. 

Prince of storm and tempest, lord whose ways are dark. 
Wind whose wings are spread for flight that none may mark. 

Lightly dies the joy that lives by grace of thee. 
Love through thee lies bleeding, hope lies cold and stark. 

On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



IN THE WATER 

The sea is awake, and the sound of the song of the joy of 

her waking is rolled 
From afar to the star that recedes from anear to the wastes 

of the wild wide shore. 
Her call is a trumpet compelling us homeward: if dawn in 

her east be acold, 
From the sea shall we crave not her grace to rekindle the 

life that it kindled before 
Her breath to requicken, her bosom to rock us, her kisses to 

bless as of yore? 
For the wind, with his wings half open, at pause in the sky, 

neither fettered nor free, 
Leans waveward and flutters the ripple of laughter; and fain 

would the twain of us be 
Where lightly the wave yearns forward from under the curve 

of the deep dawn's dome, 
And full of the morning and fired with the pride of the 

glory thereof and the glee, 
Strike out from the shore as the heart in us bids and beseeches, 

athirst for the foam. 

Life holds not an hour that is better to live in: the past is 

a tale that is told. 
The future a sun-flecked shadow, alive and asleep, with a 

blessing in store. 



BALLADES 161 

As we give us again to the waters, the rapture of limbs that 

the waters enfold 
Is less than the rapture of spirit whereby, though the burden 

it quits were sore, 
Our souls and the bodies they wield at their will are absorbed 

in the life they adore — 
In the life that endures no burden, and bows not the fore- 
head, and bends not the knee — 
In the life everlasting of earth and of heaven, in the laws 

that atone and agree, 
In the measureless music of things, in the fervor of forces 

that rest or that roam, 
That cross and return and reissue, as I after you and as you 

after me 
Strike out from the shore as the heart in us bids and beseeches, 

athirst for the foam. 

For, albeit he were less than the least of them, haply the 

heart of a man may be bold 
To rejoice in the word of the sea as a mother's that saith to 

the son she bore, 
Child, was not the life in thee mine, and my spirit the 

breath in thy lips from of old? 
Have I let not thy weakness exult in my strength, and thy 

foolishness learn of my lore? 
Have I helped not or healed not thy anguish, or made not 

the might of thy gladness more? 
And surely his heart should answer. The light of the love of 

my life is in thee. 
She is fairer than earth, and the sun is not fairer, the wind 

is not blither than she: 
From my youth hath she shown me the joy of her bays that 

I crossed, of her cliffs that I clomb, 
Till now that the twain of us here, in desire of the dawn 

and in trust of the sea, 
Strike out from the shore as the heart in us bids and beseeches, 

athirst for the foam. 



162 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



ENVOY 

Priend, earth is a harbor of refuge for winter, a covert 

whereunder to flee 
When day is the vassal of night, and the strength of the 

hosts of her mightier than he; 
But here is the presence adored of me, here my desire is at 

rest and at home. 
There are cliffs to be climbed upon land, there are ways to 

be trodden and ridden: but we 
Strike out from the shore as the heart in us bids and beseeches, 

athirst for the foam. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



A BALLAD AT PARTING 

Sea to sea that clasps and fosters England, uttering evermore 
Song eterne and praise immortal of the indomitable shore. 
Lifts aloud her constant heart up, south to north and east 
to west, 
Here in speech that shames all music, there in thunder- 
throated roar. 
Chiming concord out of discord, waking rapture out of rest. 
All her ways are lovely, all her works and symbols are divine, 
Yet shall man love best what first bade leap his heart and 
bend his knee; 
Yet where first his whole soul worshipped shall his soul set 
up her shrine: 
Nor may love not know the lovelier, fair as both beheld 

may be. 
Here the limitless north-eastern, there the strait south- 
western sea. 

Though their chant bear all one burden, as ere man was born 

it bore; 
Though the burden be diviner than the songs all souls adore; 
Yet may love not choose but choose between them which 

to love the best. 



BALLADES 163 

Me the sea my nursing-mother, me the Channel green and 
hoar, 
Holds at heart more fast than all things, bares for me the 
goodlier breast. 
Lifts for me the lordlier love-song, bids for me more sunlight 
shine. 
Sounds for me the stormier trumpet of the sweeter strain 
to me. 
So the broad pale Thames is loved not like the tawny springs 
of Tyne: 
Choice is clear between them for the soul whose vision 

holds in fee 
Here the limitless north-eastern, there the strait south- 
western sea. 

Choice is clear, but dear is either; nor has either not in 

store 
Many a likeness, many a written sign of spirit-searching lore. 
Whence the soul takes fire of sweet remembrance, mag- 
nified and blest. 
Thought of songs whose flame-winged feet have trod the 
un footed water-floor. 
When the lord of all the living lords of souls bade speed 
their quest; 
Soft live sound like children's babble down the rippling 
sand's incline. 
Or the lovely song that loves them, hailed with thankful 
prayer and plea; 
These are parcels of the harvest here whose gathered sheaves 
are mine. 
Garnered now, but sown and reaped where winds make 

wild with wrath or glee 
Here the limitless north-eastern, there the strait south- 
western sea. 

Song, thy name is freedom, seeing thy strength was born of 
breeze and brine, 
Fare now forth and fear no fortune: such a seal is set on 
thee. 



164 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Joy begat and memory bare thee, seeing in spirit a twofold 
sign, 
Even the sign of those thy fosters, each as thou from all 

time free, 
Here the limitless north-eastern, there the strait south- 
western sea. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH 
of the Sfanish Armada 

King Philip had vaunted his claims; 

He had sworn for a year he would sack us; 
With an army of heathenish names 

He was coming to fagot and stack us; 

Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, 
And shatter our ships on the main; 

But we had bold Neptune to back us, — 
And where are the galleons of Spain? 

His carackes were christened of dames 

To the kirtles whereof he would tack us; 
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames, 

He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us; 

Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, 
And Drake to his Devon again, 

And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus, — 
For where are the galleons of Spain? 

Let his Majesty hang to St. James 

The axe that he whetted to hack us; 
He must play at some lustier games 

Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us; 

To his mines of Peru he would pack us 
To tug at his bullet and chain; 

Alas! that his Greatness should lack us! — 
But where are the galleons of Spain? 



BALLADES 165 



ENVOY 

GLORIANA! — the don may attack us 
Whenever his stomach be fainj 

He must reach us before he can rack us, . . . 
And where are the galleons of Spain? 

Austin Dobson 



"O NAVIS" 

Ship, to the roadstead rolled. 

What dost thou? — O, once more 

Regain the port. Behold! 
Thy sides are bare of oar. 
Thy tall mast wounded sore 

Of Africus, and see, 

What shall thy spars restore!— 

Tempt not the tyrant sea! 

What cable now will hold 

When all drag out from shore! 
What god canst thou, too bold. 

In time of need implore! 

Look! for thy sails flap o'er, 
Thy stiff shrouds part and flee, 

Fast — fast thy seams outpour, — 
Tempt not the tyrant sea! 

What though thy ribs of old 

The pines of Pontus bore! 
Not now to stern of gold 

Men trust, or painted prore! 

Thou, or thou count'st it store 
A toy of winds to be, 

Shun thou the Cyclads' roar,— 
Tempt not the tyrant sea! 



166 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



ENVOY 

Ship of the State, before 
A care, and now to me 

A hope in my heart's core, — 
Tempt not the tyrant sea! 

Austin Dobson 



BALLADE OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS 

Fair islands of the silver fleece, 

Hoards of unsunned, uncounted gold. 
Whose havens are the haunts of Peace, 

Whose boys are in our quarrel bold; 
Our bolt is shot, our tale is told. 

Our ship of state in storms may toss, 
But ye are young if we are old. 

Ye Islands of the Southern Cross! 

Aye, we must dwindle and decrease. 

Such fates the ruthless years unfold; 
And yet we shall not wholly cease, 

We shall not perish unconsoled; 
Nay, still shall Freedom keep her hold 

Within the sea's inviolate fosse. 
And boast her sons of English mould. 

Ye Islands of the Southern Cross! 

All empires tumble — Rome and Greece — 

Their swords are rust, their altars cold! 
For us, the Children of the Seas, 

Who ruled where'er the waves have rolled, 
For us, in Fortune's books enscrolled, 

I read no runes of hopeless loss; 
Nor — while ye last — our knell is tolled, 

Ye Islands of the Southern Cross! 



BALLADES 167 

ENVOY 

Britannia, when thy hearth's a-cold, 

When o'er thy grave has grown the moss, 

Still Rule Australia shall be trolled 
In Islands of the Southern Cross! 

Andrew Lan^ 

A BALLAD OF BATH 

Like a queen enchanted who may not laugh or weep, 

Glad at heart and guarded from change and care like ours, 
Girt about with beauty by days and nights that creep 
Soft as breathless ripples that softly shoreward sweep. 

Lies the lovely city whose grace no grief deflowers. 
Age and grey forgetfulness, time that shifts and veers. 
Touch thee not, our fairest, whose charm no rival nears. 

Hailed as England's Florence of one whose praise gives 
grace, 
Landor, once thy lover, a name that love reveres: 

Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face. 

Dawn whereof we know not, and noon whose fruit we reap. 

Garnered up in record of years that fell like flowers. 
Sunset liker sunrise along the shining steep 
Whence thy fair face lightens, and where thy soft springs 
leap, 

Crown at once and gird thee with grace of guardian 
powers. 
Loved of men beloved of us, souls that fame inspheres. 
All thine air hath music for him who dreams and hears; 

Voices mixed of multitudes, feet of friends that pace. 
Witness why for ever, if heaven's face clouds or clears, 

Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face. 

Peace hath here found harbourage mild as very sleep: 

Not the hills and waters, the fields and wildwood bowers. 
Smile or speak more tenderly, clothed with peace more deep, 
Here tiian memory whispers of days our memories keep 
Fast with love and laughter and dreams of withered hours. 



168 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Bright were these as blossom of old, and thought endears 
Still the fair soft phantoms that pass with smiles or tears, 

Sweet as roseleaves hoarded and dried wherein we trace 
Still the soul and spirit of sense that lives and cheers: 

Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face. 

City lulled asleep by the chime of passing years, 

Sweeter smiles thy rest than the radiance round thy peers; 

Only love and lovely remembrance here have place. 
Time on thee lies lighter than music on men's ears; 

Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 

A BALLADE OF THE NIGHT 

Far from the earth the deep-descended day 

Lies dim in hidden sanctuaries of sleep. 

The winged winds couched on the threshold keep 

Uneasy watch, and still expectant stay 

The voice that bids their rushing host delay 

No more to rise, and with tempestuous power 

Rend the wide veil of heaven. Long watching they 

Sigh in the silence of the midnight hour. 

Hark! where the forests slow in slumber sway 
Below the blue wild ridges, steep on steep. 
Thronging the sky — how shuddering as they leap 
The impetuous waters go their fated way, 
And mourn in mountain chasms, and as they stray 
By many a magic town and marble tower. 
As those that still unreconciled obey. 
Sigh in the silence of the midnight hour. 

Listen — the quiet darkness doth array 
The toiling earth, and there is time to weep — 
A deeper sound is mingled with the sweep 
Of streams and winds that whisper far away. 
Oh listen! where the populous cities lay 
Low in the lap of sleep their ancient dower. 
The changeless spirit of our changeful clay 
Sighs in the silence of the midnight hour. 



BALLADES 169 

Sigh, watcher for a dawn remote and gray, 
Mourn, journeyer to an undesired deep, 
Eternal sower, thou that shalt not reap, 
Immortal, whom the plagues of God devour. 
Mourn — 'tis the hour when thou wert wont to pray. 
Sigh in the silence of the midnight hour. 

Margaret L. Woods 

BALLADE OF WINDY NIGHTS 

Have you learnt the sorrow of windy nights 

When lilacs down in the garden moan, 
And stars are flickering faint, wan lights, 

And voices whisper in wood and stone? 

When steps on the stairway creak and groan, 
And shadowy ghosts take an hour of ease 

In dim-lit galleries all their own? 
Do you know the sorrow of nights like these? 

Have you lain awake on the windy nights 

Slighted by sleep and to rest unknown, 
When keen remorse is a whip that smites 

With every gust on the window blown? 

When phantom Love from a broken throne 
Steps down through the Night's torn tapestries, 

Sad-eyed and wistful, and ah! so alone? 
Do you know the sorrow of nights like these? 

Have you felt a touch on the windy nights — 

The touch of a hand not flesh nor bone. 
But a mystical something, pale, that plights 

With waning stars and with dead stars strown? 

Or heard grey lips with the fire all flown 
Pleading again in a lull o' the breeze — 

A long life's wreck in a short hour shown? 
Do you know the sorrow of nights like these? 

Ahy the whirlzvind reafed where a wind is soztm^ 
And the fhantom Love in the night one sees! 



170 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

AAf the touching hand and the pleading tone! 
Do you know the sorrow of nights like these? 

Will H. OjiilvU 



BALLADE OF CHRISTMAS GHOSTS 

Between the moonlight and the fire 
In winter twilights long ago, 
What ghosts we raised for your desire 
To make your merry blood run slow! 
How old, how grave, how wise we grow! 
No Christmas ghost can make us chill, 
Save those that troop in mournful row, 
The ghosts we all can raise at will! 

The beasts can talk in barn and byre 
On Christmas Eve, old legends know. 
As year by year the years retire. 
We men fall silent then I trow. 
Such sights hath Memory to show. 
Such voices from the silence thrill. 
Such shapes return with Christmas snow, — 
The ghosts we all can raise at will. 

Oh, children of the village choir. 
Your carols on the midnight throw. 
Oh, bright across the mist and mire. 
Ye ruddy hearths of Christmas glow! 
Beat back the dread, beat down the woe. 
Let's cheerily descend the hill; 
Be welcome all, to come or go, 
The ghosts we all can raise at will! 

ENVOY 

Friend, sursum corda, soon or slow 
We part, like guests who've joyed their fill; 
Forget them not, nor mourn them so, 
The ghosts we all can raise at will! 

A. Lang 



BALLADES 171 



IN WINTER* 

Oh, to go back to the days of June, 

Just to be young and alive again, 
Hearken again to the mad, sweet tune 

Birds were singing with might and main: 
South they flew at the summer's wane, 

Leaving their nests for storms to harry, 
Since time was coming for wind and rain 

Under the wintry skies to marry. 

Wearily wander by dale and dune 

Footsteps fettered with clanking chain — 
Free they were in the days of June, 

Free they never can be again: 
Fetters of age, and fetters of pain, 

Joys that fly, and sorrows that tarry — 
Youth is over, and hopes were vain 

Under the wintry skies to marry. 

Now we chant but a desolate rune — 

Oh, to be young and alive again! 
But never December turns to June, 

And length of living is length of pain: 
Winds in the nestless trees complain. 

Snows of winter about us tarry, 
And never the birds come back again 

Under the wintry skies to marry. 

ENVOI 

Youths and maidens, blithesome and vain, 
Time makes thrusts that you cannot parry; 

Mate in season, for who is fain 
Under the wintry skies to marry? 

Louise Chandler Moulton 

* From Poems and Sonnets by Louise Chandler Moulton. 
Copyright 1909, Little, Brown & Company, Publishers. 



172 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



THE PIXIES 

The frost hath spread a shining net 

Where late the autumn roses blew, 
On lake and stream a seal is set 

Where floating lilies charmed the view; 

So silently the wonder grew 
Beneath pale Dian's mystic light, 

I know my fancies whisper true, 
The Pixies are abroad to-night. 

When at the midnight chime are met 

Together elves of every hue, 
I trow the gazer will regret 

That peers upon their retinue; 

For limb awry and eye askew 
Have oft proclaimed a fairy's spite — 

Peep slyly, gallants, lest ye rue. 
The Pixies are abroad to-night. 

'Tis said their forms are tiny, yet 

All human ills they can subdue, 
Or with a wand or amulet 

Can win a maiden's heart for you; 

And many a blessing know to strew 
To make the way to wedlock bright; 

Give honour to the dainty crew, 
The Pixies are abroad to-night. 



Prince, e'en a prince might vainly sue, 

Unaided by a fairy's might; 
Remember Cinderella's shoe. 

The Pixies are abroad to-night. 

Samuel Minturn Peck 



BALLADES 173 

BALLADE TO THEOCRITUS, IN WINTER ♦ 

kaopcni rav 'ZtKe^dv £f a?ia 

Id. viii, 56. 

Ah! leave the smoke, the wealth, the roar 
Of London, leave the bustling street, 
For still, by the Sicilian shore, 
The murmur of the Muse is sweet. 
Still, still, the suns of summer greet 
The mountain-grave of Helike, 
And shepherds still their songs repeat 
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea. 

What though they worship Pan no more, 
That guarded once the shepherd's seat, 
They chatter of their rustic lore, 
They watch the wind among the wheat; 
Cicalas chirp, the young lambs bleat. 
Where whispers pine to cypress tree; 
They count the waves that idly beat 
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea. 

Theocritus! thou canst restore 
The pleasant years, and over-fleet; 
With thee we live as men of yore, 
We rest where running waters meet: 
And then we turn unwilling feet 
And seek the world — so must it be — 
We may not linger in the heat 
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea! 

ENVOY 

Master, — when rain, and snow, and sleet 
And northern winds are wild, to thee 
We come, we rest in thy retreat. 
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea! 

Andrew Lang 

* From Ballades and Verses Vain by Andrew Lang. Copy- 
right 1884 by Charles Scribner's Sons, Publishers. 



174 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



FAREWELL, FAREWELL, OLD YEAR 

The hungry north wind whines 

Around the barred door. 
And through the proud old pines 

Is heard its ruthless roar: 

With wailing waves that pour 
Their plaint upon the ear. 

It echoes o'er and o'er, 
"Farewell, farewell, old year!" 

Snow hides the leafless vines 

That fleecy blossoms bore. 
In long and lonely lines 

Beside the streamlet's shore, 

For suns that beam no more 
Above earth's frozen bier 

The tall bare trees implore, 
"Farewell, farewell, old year!" 

Yet while warm firelight shines 
On heads both young and hoar, 

Although no heart divines 

What fate may have in store. 
Mourn not for days of yore. 

But sing with merry cheer 
As blithe as birds that soar, 

"Farewell, farewell, old year!" 

ENVOY 

O friend, as heretofore. 

In spring dark skies will clear. 

Buds burst to bloom once more: 
"Farewell, farewell, old year!" 

Clinton Scollard 



BALLADES .175 



A BALLADE OF THE FIRST RAIN 

The sky is blue with summer and the sun, 
The woods are brown as autumn with the tan. 
It might as well be Tropics and be done, 
I might as well be born a copper Khan; 
I fashion me an oriental fan 
Made of the wholly unreceipted bills 
Brought by the ice-man, sleeping in his van 
(A storm is coming on the Chiltern Hills). 

I read the Young Philosophers for fun 
— Fresh as our sorrow for the late Queen Anne — 
The Dionysians whom a pint would stun. 
The Pantheists who never heard of Pan. 
— But through my hair electric needles ran, 
And on my book a gout of water spills. 
And on the skirts of heaven the guns began 
(A storm is coming on the Chiltern Hills). 

O fields of England, cracked and dry and dun, 
O soul of England, sick of words, and wan! — 
The clouds grow dark; — the down-rush has begun. 
— It comes, it comes, as holy darkness can, 
Black as with banners, ban and arriere-ban; 
A falling laughter all the valley fills, 
Deep as God's thunder and the thirst of man: 
(A storm is coming on the Chiltern Hills). 



Prince, Prince-Elective on the modern plan, 
Fulfilling such a lot of People's Wills, 
You take the Chiltern Hundreds while you can — 
A storm is coming on the Chiltern Hills. 

G. K. Chesterton 



176 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF EASTER DAWN 

The gaunt trees black and naked stand, 

And crackle, as the wind sweeps by; 
Their boles break the horizon, and 

Their branches arabesque the sky. 

It is the dark hour. Shivering lie 
The herds, in silence ominous — 

Then dawn breaks, and there sounds the cry 
Of "Resurrexit Dominus!" 

Creeps then a soft light o'er the strand, 

And dawn-birds preen their wings to fly. 
Across the graying east, a band 

Of brightness stretches, broad and high. 

The early breezes cease to sigh — 
A quiet, holy calm in us 

Prepares us for the gladsome cry 
Of "Resurrexit Dominus!" 

Then, sunrise! And across the land 

Cloud-tints and flower-colors vie; 
Earth glows with life at His command — 

The glory of the Lord is nigh! 

A new world born before the eye, 
Heaven sheds its quickening balm on us, 

And angels' voices chant the cry 
Of "Resurrexit Dominus!" 

Lord! In a night our winters die 
And spring inspires her psalm in us; 

Death yields to immortality — 
"Sic Resurrexit Dominus!" 

Edwin Meadg Robimon 



BALLADES 177 



BALLADE OF SPRING 

There's a noise of coming, going, 

Budding, waking, vast and still. 
Hark, the echoes are yeo-hoing 

Loud and sweet from vale and hill! 

Do you hear it? With a will, 
In a grandiose lilt and swing, 

Nature's voices shout and trill. . . , 
'Tis the symphony of Spring! 

Rains are singing, clouds are flowing, 
Ocean thunders, croons the rill, 

And the West his clarion's blowing. 
And the sparrow tunes his quill. 
And the thrush is fluting shrill. 

And the skylark's on the wing. 

And the merles their hautboys fill— 

'Tis the symphony of Spring! 

Lambs are bleating, steers are lowing, 

Brisk and rhythmic clacks the mill. 
Kapellmeister April, glowing 

And superb with glee and skill, 

Comes, his orchestra to drill 
In a music that will ring 

Till the grey world yearn and thrill. 
'Tis the symphony of Spring! 

ENVOY 

Princes, though your blood be chill, 
Here's shall make you leap and fling. 

Fling and leap like Jack and Jill! 
'Tis the symphony of Spring. 

W. E. Henley 



178 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



THE BALLAD OF THE THRUSH 

Across the noisy street 

I hear him careless throw 

One warning utterance sweet; 
Then faint at first, and low. 
The full notes closer grow; 

Hark! what a torrent gush! 
They pour, they overflow — 

Sing on, sing on, O Thrush! 



What trick, what dream's deceit 
Has fooled his fancy so 

To scorn of dust and heat? 
I, prisoned here below, 
Feel the fresh breezes blow; 

And see, thro' flag and rush. 
Cool water sliding slow — 

Sing on, sing on, O Thrush! 



Sing on. What though thou beat 

On that dull bar, thy foe! 
Somewhere the green boughs meet 

Beyond the roofs a-row; 

Somewhere the blue skies show, 
Somewhere no black walls crush 

Poor hearts with hopeless woe — 
Sing on, sing on, O Thrush! 



ENVOY 

Bird, though they come, we know, 
The empty cage, the hush; 

Still, ere the brief day go. 
Sing on, sing on, O Thrush! 

Austin Dobson 



BALLADES 179 



BALLADE OF JUNE 

Lilacs glow, and jasmines climb, 
Larks are loud the livelong day. 

O the golden summer-prime! 

June takes up the sceptre of May, 
And the land beneath her sway 

Glows, a dream of flowerful closes. 
And the very wind's at play 

With Sir Love among the roses. 



Lights and shadows in the lime 

Meet in exquisite disarray. 
Hark! the rich recurrent rhyme 

Of the blackbird's roundelay! 

Where he carols, frank and gay, 
Fancy no more glooms or proses; 

Joyously she flits away 
With Sir Love among the roses. 



O the cool sea's slumberous chime! 

O the links that beach the bay. 
Tricked with meadow-sweet and thyme, 

Where the brown bees murmur and stray! 

Lush the hedgerows, ripe the hay! 
Many a maiden, binding posies. 

Finds herself at Yea-and-Nay 
With Sir Love among the roses. 



ENVOI 

Boys and girls, be wise, I pray! 
Do as dear Queen June proposes. 

For she bids you troop and stay 
With Sir Love among the roses. 

W, E, Henley 



180 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF ASPIRATION 

O to be somewhere by the sea, 

Far from the city's dust and shine, 
From Mammon's priests and from Mammon's 
shrine, 

From the stony street, and the grim decree 
That over an inkstand crooks my spine, 

From the books that are and the books to be. 
And the need that makes of the sacred Nine 
A school of harridans! — sweetheart mine, 

O to be somewhere by the sea! 

Under a desk I bend my knee. 

Whether the morn be foul or fine. 

I envy the tramp, in a ditch supine. 
Or footing it over the sunlit lea. 

But I struggle and write and make no sign, 
For a labouring ox must earn his fee, 

And even a journalist has to dine; 

But O for a breath of the eglantine! 
O to be somewhere by the sea! 

Out on the links, where the wind blows free, 
And the surges gush, and the rounding brine 
Wanders and sparkles, an air like wine 

Fills the senses with pride and glee. 

In neighbour hedges are flowers to twine, 

A white sail glimmers, the foamlines flee: 
Life, love, and laziness are a trine 
Worshipful, wonderful, dear, divine. . . » 

O to be somewhere by the sea! 

ENVOY 

Out and alas for the sweet Lang Syne, 
When I was rich in a certain key — 

The key of the fields; and I hadn't to pine, 
Or to sigh in vain at the sun's decline, 
O to be somewhere by the Sea! 

W. E. Henley 



BALLADES 181 

A BALLADE OF SPRING'S UNREST 

Up in the woodland where Spring 
Comes as a laggard, the breeze 
Whispers the pines that the King, 
Fallen, has yielded the keys 
To his White Palace and flees 
Northward o'er mountain and dale. 
Speed then the hour that frees! 
Ho, for the pack and the trail! 



Northward my fancy takes wing, 
Restless am I, ill at ease. 
Pleasures the city can bring 
Lose now their power to please. 
Barren, all barren, are these, 
Town life's a tedious tale; 
That cup is drained to the lees— 
Ho, for the pack and the trail! 



Ho, for the morning I sling 
Pack at my back, and with knees 
Brushing a thoroughfare, fling 
Into the green mysteries: 
One with the birds and the bees. 
One with the squirrel and quail, 
Night, and the stream's melodies— 
Ho, for the pack and the trail ! 



L ENVOI 

Pictures and music and teas. 
Theaters — books even — stale. 
Ho, for the smell of the trees! 
Ho, for the pack and the trail! 

Bert Leston Taylor 



182 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF FOG IN THE CANON 

Banked in a serried drift beside the sea, 

Rolling, wind-harried, in a snowy spray. 
Majestic and mysterious, swirling free. 

The .ghostly flood is massing, cold and grey; 

Inland it marches, and, at close of day. 
Pearl-white and opal, sunset-hued with rose, 

It storms the ridge, and then, in brave array, 
The fog's dumb army up the canon goes. 



And now the forest whispers, tree to tree — 

Their grim defense is marshalled for the fray; 
Pine, fir, and redwood, standing cap-a-pie, 

Down the long spurs and on the hill tops sway. 

And now the misty vanguards, wild and gay. 
Ride down the breeze — and now their squadrons close. 

And, sweeping like an ocean on its prey. 
The fog's dumb army up the canon goes. 



The trembling bushes cower in the lee, 

O'er the mad rout the ragged smoke-wreaths play. 

And scurrying cloudlets desperately flee. 
On the low crests the waving banners stay. 
Now lost, now conquering, striving to delay 

The riotous deluge — yet in vain oppose — 
Height after height is carried, and away 

The fog's dumb army up the caiion goes^ 



ENVOY 

All night the battle wages, weird and fey. 

And gallant woods dispute their phantom foes; 

But, conquering, overwhelming with dismay. 
The fog's dumb army up the canon goes. 

Gelett Burgess 



BALLADES 183 



BALLADE OF THE PIPESMOKE CARRY 

The Ancient Wood is white and still, 
Over the pines the bleak wind blows, 
Voiceless the brook and mute the rill. 
Silence too where the river flows. 
Still I catch the scent of the rose 
And hear the white-throat's roundelay. 
Footing the trail that Memory knows, 
Over the hills and far away. 



I have only a pipe to fill: 
Weaving, wreathing rings disclose 
A trail that flings straight up the hill, 
Straight as an arrow's flight. For those 
Who fare by night the pole star glows 
Above the mountain top. By day 
A blasted pine and pathway shows 
Over the hills and far away. 



The Ancient Wood is white and chill. 
But what know I of wintry woes? 
The Pipesmoke Trail is mine at will — 
Naught may hinder and none oppose. 
Such the power the pipe bestows, 
When the wilderness calls I may 
Tramping go, as I smoke and doze. 
Over the hills and far away. 



Deep in the canyons lie the snows: 
They shall vanish if I but say — 
If my fancy a-roving goes 
Over the hills and far away. 

Bert Lesion Taylor 



18+ LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



A BALLADE OF MIDSUMMER 

The heat wave sweeps along the street. 

And torrid ripples mark its flow; 
Successive billows follow fleet, 

And blister all things with their glow. 

No pufi" of air swings to and fro; 
No gentle zephyr stirs the trees. 

O for the winds that o'er ocean blow! 
O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze! 



Along the shadeless ways you greet 

No damsel fair, no buckramed beau — 
The solitude is ruled by heat — 

A sultry, sullen, scorching woe. 

The blazing sun rides high and slow, 
As if with laziness to tease 

The melting, sweltering world below — 
O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze! 



The laggard steed with aching feet 
Must stagger on; for him is no 

Surcease of labor; no retreat 

Before his stint is done. And so 
Must man still labour on, although 

He hopeless longs to take his ease, 
Or to the ocean fain would go — 

O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze! 



Princes or peasants, friend and foe, 
No man may have all that he please; 

Midsummer heat shall lay him low — 
O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze! 

Brander Matthews 



BALLADES 185 



PRINCESS BALLADE* 

Never a horn sounds in Sherwood to-night, 

Friar Tuck's drinking Olympian ale, 
Little John's wandered away from our sight, 

Robin Hood's bow hangs unused on its nail. 

E\xn the moon has grown weary and pale 
Sick for the glint of Maid Marian's hair, 

But there is one joy on mountain and dale, 
Fairies abound all the time, everywhere! 

Saints have attacked them with sacredest might, 
They could not shatter their gossamer mail; 

Steam-driven engines can never affright 

Fairies who dance in their spark-sprinkled trail. 
Still for a warning the sad Banshees wail, 

Still are the Leprechauns ready to bear 
Purses of gold to their captors for bail; 

Fairies abound all the time, everywhere! 

Oberon, King of the realms of delight. 

May your domain over us never fail. 
Mab, as a rainbow-hued butterfly bright, 

Yours is the glory that age cannot stale. 

When we are planted down under the shale. 
Fairy- folk, drop a few daffodils there. 

Comfort our souls in the Stygian vale; 
Fairies abound all the time, everywhere^ 

l'envoi 

White Flower Princess, though sophisters rail, 
Let us be glad in the faith that we share. 

None shall the Good People safely assail; 
Fairies abound all the time, everywhere! 

Joyce Kilmer 

* From Poems, Essays and Letters by Joyce Kilmer. Copyi 
right 1914, George H. Doran Company, Publishers. 



186 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF AUGUST 

Now, when the street-pent airs blow stale 
A longing stirs us as of yore 

To take the old Odyssian trail, 
Td bend upon the trireme's oar 
For isled stream and hill-bound shore; 

To lay aside the dirty pen 

For summer's blue and golden store 

'Neath other skies, 'mid stranger men! 



Then let the rover's call prevail 

That opes for us the enchanted door, 

That bids us spread the silken sail 
For bays o'er which the seabirds soar, 
And foam-flecked rollers pitch and roar, 

Where nymph maybe, and mermaiden, 
Come beachward in the moon-rise hoar, 

'Neath other skies, 'mid stranger men! 



Blue-eyed Calypsos, Circes pale 

(The sage who shuns them I abhor). 

These — for a fortnight — shall not fail 
To thrill the heart's susceptive core. 
To bind us with their ancient lore. 

Who rather like to listen when 

Sweet-lipped the sirens voice their score, 

'Neath other skies, 'mid stranger men! 



ENVOY 

Masters, who seek the minted ore. 
It's only August now and then, 

Ah, take the Wanderer's way once more, 
'Neath other skies, 'mid stranger men! 

Patrick R. Chalmers 



BALLADES 187 



A BALLADE OF MIDSUMMER 

The rose still blooms within the dipt parterre, 

A boon to lovers; still the south winds sigh; 
There is a sense of languor in the air; 

Each hour that passes seems too sweet to die. 

Low croons the cuckoo where the orchards lie 
Aswoon in dreams from morn to mellow morn; 

The wheat is golden 'neath a gold-blue sky, 
And hopes of harvest kindle in the corn. 



The thrush at twilight weaves a silver snare 
Of song that quavers till the moon is high; 

There is an Orient attar everywhere; 

Each hour that passes seems too sweet to die. 
The shrill cicada sounds its sudden cry 

In the hot bush, then leaves the silence lorn; 
An amber ripple runs along the rye, 

While hopes of harvest kindle in the corn. 



The mountains call us, stair on stately stair; 

The glades invite us; we are fain to fly. 
Leaving behind the thralling bonds of care, — 

(Each hour that passes seems too sweet to die.) 

Forgetful of the web of ashen ply. 
To toil whereat were weary mortals born, 

Grasping the meed the darker days deny 
Now hopes of harvest kindle in the corn. 



ENVOY 

Love, let us share its glamour, you and I, 
Each passing hour that seems too sweet to die! 
Life is at floodtide, of no glory shorn. 
When hopes of harvest kindle in the corn. 

Clinton Scollard 



188 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF THE FOREST IN SUMMER 

Fra Cruachan tae Aberdeen 

The hinds'll move their calfies soon 
Up frae the bracken's bonnie green 

To yon blue heights that float aboon; 
Nae snaws the tops an' corries croon; 

Crags whaur the eagle lifts his kills 
Blink i' the gowden efternoon; 

It's summer noo in a' the hills! 



The heather sleeps frae morn till e'en 

Braw in her reed-an'-purple goon; 
Sax weeks it wants or stags be clean 

An' gang wi thickenin' manes an' broun 
Waitin' the cauld October moon 

When a' the roarin' brae-face fills — 
Ye've heard yon wild, wanchancy tune? 

It's summer noo in a' the hills! 



Yet blaws a soupin' breeze an' keen; 

We're wearit for it whiles in toun, 
An' I wad be whaur I hae been 

In Autumn's blast or heats o' June 
Up on the quiet forest groun', 

Friens wi' the sun, or shoor that chills, 
Watchin' the beasts gang up an' doon; 

It's summer noo in a' the hills! 



ENVOY 

Mountains o' deer, ye ca' a loon 
Fra streets an' sic-like stoury ills 

Wi' thankfu' heart an' easy shoon; 
It's summer noo in a' the hills! 

Patrick R. Chalmers 



BALLADES 189 



BALLADE OF THE THINGS THAT REMAIN 

The loveliness of water, its faery ways 

With cloud and wind, its myriad sorceries 
With morning and the moon, and stars agaze 

In its still glass, and the tranced summer trees; 

The vowelled rivers, the rough-throated seas, 
The tides that brim with silver the grassy plain, 

Or strew lone islands with lost argosies: 
We come and go — these things remain. 



Fire and its gnomes, soft-talking as it plays, 
Dream-like, amid its fretted imageries, 

Or melting the wild hills, and with its blaze 
Licking the very stars; and, even as these, 
The winds that blow through all the centuries, 

The falling snow, the shining April rain. 
Birds singing, and the far-off Pleiades: 

We come and go — these things remain. 



God's glory, and the march of nights and days, 

The seals upon the ancient mysteries 
Of rose and star and woman's magic face, 

That, seeing, man loves, yet knows not what he sees; 

The old sweet sins, the old sweet sanctuaries; 
War and long peace, then war and peace again; 

The Dark and in Death's hands the dreadful keys: 
We come and go — these things remain. 



ENVOI 

Prince, save ourselves, there is but little flees 
That comes not back, even as this refrain; 

'Faith, 'tis a thought that doth me greatly please: 
We come and go — these things remain. 

Richard Lc Gallienn<^ 



190 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



ALONE IN ARCADY 

Love, harken how the boughs o'erhead 

Their lute-like notes are murmuring! 
It is as though the year had spread 

ABout us an eternal spring; 

Joy breathes from every living thing; 
The air is sweet with harmony; 

Linnet and lark their ardors fling; — 
We are alone in Arcady. 



Love, there's an Orient attar shed 

From blooms that climb and blooms that cling, 
Fragrance to subtle fragrance wed 

To us the vagrant breezes bring; 

Roses have lost their thorns to sting; 
The lilies gleam like ivory; 

Each violet — ah, the marveling! 
We are alone in Arcady! 



Love, streams by lyric raptures led 

Through reedy coverts slip and sing, 
As when of yore Adonis bled, 

Or Orpheus touched the plaintive string 

Upon his weary wandering 
In search of pale Persephone; 

Time seems to fold his hastening wing; — 
We are alone in Arcady! 



Love, whatsoever path we tread, 
If side by side our ways may be. 

Then of a sooth it may be said, — 
"We are alone in Arcady!" 

Clinton Scollard 



BALLADES 191 

BALLADE OF BROKEN FLUTES* 
(To A. T. Schumann) 

In dreams I crossed a barren land, 

A land of ruin, far away; 
Around me hung on every hand 

A deathful stillness of decay; 

And silent, as in bleak dismay 
That song should thui forsaken be, 

On that forgotten ground there lay 
The broken flutes of Arcady. 

The forest that was all so grand 

When pipes and tabors had their sway 
Stood leafless now, a ghostly band 

Of skeletons in cold array. 

A lonely surge of ancient spray 
Told of an unforgetful sea. 

But iron blows had hushed for aye 
The broken flutes of Arcady. 

No more by summer breezes fanned. 

The place was desolate and gray; 
But still my dream was to command 

New life into that shrunken clay. 

I tried it. And you scan to-day. 
With uncommiserating glee, 

The songs of one who strove to play 
The broken flutes of Arcady. 

ENVOY 

So, Rock, I join the common fray. 

To fight where Mammon may decree; 

And leave, to crumble as they may, 
The broken flutes of Arcady. 

Edwin Arlington Robinson 

♦From The Children of the Night. Copyright 1896-1897 by 
Edwin Arlington Robinson. Published by Charles Scribner's 
Sons. 



192 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF SOLITUDE 

Thank Heaven, in these despondent days, 

I have at least one faithful friend, 
Who meekly listens to my lays, 

As o'er the darkened downs we wend. 

Nay, naught of mine may him offend; 
In sooth he is a courteous wight. 

His constancy needs no amend — 
My shadow on a moonlight night. 



Too proud to give me perjured praise, 

He hearkens as we onward tend, 
And ne'er disputes a doubtful phrase, 

Nor says he cannot comprehend. 

Might God such critics always send! 
He turns not to the left or right. 

But patient follows to the end — 
My shadow on a moonlight night. 



And if the public grant me bays, 

On him no jealousies descend; 
But through the midnight woodland ways, 

He velvet-footed will attend; 

Or where the chalk cliffs downward bend 
To meet the sea all silver-bright, 

There will he come, most reverend — 
My shadow on a moonlight night. 



ENVOY 

O wise companion, I commend 
Your grace in being silent quite; 

And envy with approval blend — 
My shadow on a moonlight night. 

William Black 



BALLADES 193 



ASPHODEL 



Now who will thread the winding way, 

Afar from fervid summer heat, 
Beyond the sunshafts of the day, 

Beyond the blast of winter sleet? 

In the green twilight, dimly sweet, 
Of poplar shades the shadows dwell, 

Who found erewhile a fair retreat 
Along the mead of Asphodel. 

There death and birth are one, they say; 

Those lowlands bear no yellow wheat. 
No sound doth rise of mortal fray. 

Of lowing herds, of flocks that bleat; 

Nor wind nor rain doth blow nor beat; 
Nor shrieketh sword, nor tolleth bell; 

But lovers one another greet 
Along the mead of Asphodel. 

I would that there my soul might stray; 

I would my phantom, fair and fleet, 
Might cleave the burden of the clay, 

Might leave the murmur of the street, 

Nor with half-hearted prayer entreat 
The half-believed-in Gods; too well 

I know the name I shall repeat 
Along the mead of Asphodel, 

Queen Proserpine, at whose white feet 
In life my love I may not tell. 

Wilt give me welcome when we meet 
Along the mead of Asphodel? 

Graham R. Tomson 



194- LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF DREAMS 

"Captain, for what brave hire 

Sail'st thou upon this sea?" 
"I have dreamt a dream of desire, 

And I seek no other fee. 
Shores sweet with rosemary 

Down to blue waters grew — 
... I dreamt: yet I say to thee 

Only our dreams are true. 



"I see the gleam of a spire, 

The hint of a shadowed tree. 
The glint of the sun, like fire, 

Where haply that land may be." 
"In dreaming your youth may flee, 

Captain and vagrant crew." 
"Good luck to our vagrancy! 

Only our dreams are true." 



"The sea has a deadly ire, 

Her sorrows are ill to dree; 
Does not thy sailing tire? 

What of thy Arcady?" 
"I bear with adversity, 

Bear with the sea's great rue. 
I have dreamt of a port ... ay me' 

Only our dreams are true." 



ENVOI 

Sailors of all degree, 

This I do say to you — 
Voyage on hofefully, 

Only our dreams are true. 

Rose E. Macaulay 



BALLADES 195 



BALLADE BY THE FIRE * 

Slowly 1 smoke and hug my knee, 
The while a witless masquerade 

Of things that only children see 
Floats in a mist of light and shade: 
They pass, a flimsy cavalcade, 

And with a weak, remindful glow. 
The falling embers break and fade, 

As one by one the phantoms go. 

Then, with a melancholy glee 

To think where once my fancy strayed, 
I muse on what the years may be 

Whose coming tales are all unsaid. 

Till tongs and shovel, snugly laid 
Within their shadowed niches, grow 

By grim degrees to pick and spade, 
As one by one the phantoms go. 

But then, what though the mystic Three 
Around me ply their merry trade? — 

And Charon soon may carry me 

Across the gloomy Stygian glade? — 
Be up, my soul; nor be afraid 

Of what some unborn year may show; 
But mind your human debts are paid. 

As one by one the phantoms go. 



Life is the game that must be played: 

This truth at least, good friends, we know; 

So live and laugh, nor be dismayed 
As one by one the phantoms go. 

Edwin Arlington Robinson 

* From The Children of the Night. Copyright 1896-1897 
by Edwin Arlington Robinson. Published by Charles Scribner's 
Sons. 



196 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF VAIN HOPES 

O ghosts of Bygone Hours, that stand 

Upon the marge of yonder shore 
Where .by the pale feet-trampled sand 

(Though none is seen to walk that floor) 

The Stygian wave flows evermore: 
We fain would buy what ye can tell, 

Speak! Speak! And thrill to each heart's core- 
Vain Hopes are all we have to sell I 



O spectral Hours that throng this land — 
Where no sweet floods of sunshine pour, 

But vast, tenebriously grand, 

Dense glooms abide, wind-swept or frore — 
C ye who thus have gone before, 

Break silence — break your charmed spell! 
Heed not our negligence of yore! 

Vain Hofes are all zve have to sell I 



O sombre, sad-eyed, shadowy band. 

Speak, speak, and wave not o'er and o'er 

Each wan phantasmal shadow-hand; 
O say, if when with battling sore 
We cross the flood and hear the roar 

O' the world like a sighed farewell. 

What waits beyond the Grave's last door? 

Vain Hofes are all we have to sell! 



O coming Hours, O unspent store, 
Your promise breathe — as in sea-shell 

Imprison'd Echo sings her lore — 
Vain Hofes are all we have to sell! 

William Sharp 



BALLADES 197 



"KING PANDION, HE IS DEAD" 

"King Pandion, he is dead; 
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead." 

— Shakesfeare. 

Dreamers, drinkers, rebel youth, 
Where's the folly free and fine 

You and I mistook for truth? 

Wits and wastrels, friends of wine, 
Wags and poets, friends of mine, 

Gleams and glamors all are fled, 
Fires and frenzies half divine! 

King Pandion, he is dead! 

Time's unmannerly, uncouth! 

Here's the crow's-foot for a sign! 
And, upon our brows, forsooth. 

Wits and wastrels, friends of wine, 

Time hath set his mark malign; 
Frost has touched us, heart and head. 

Cooled the blood and dulled the eyne: 
King Pandion, he is dead! 

Time's a tyrant without ruth: — 
Fancies used to bloom and twine 

Round a common tavern booth, 
Wits and wastrels, friends of wine, 
In that youth of mine and thine! 

'Tis for youth the feast is spread ; 

When we dine now — we but dine! — 

King Pandion, he is dead! 

How our dreams would glow and shine, 
Wits and wastrels, friends of wine, 
Ere the drab Hour came that said: 
King Pandion, he is dead! 

Don Marquit 



198 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF THE COGNOSCENTI 

Out of the silence some one called my name — 

Straight to my side a winged message flew — 
Out of the dark an unknown shadow came, 

And lo, we were revealed at last, and knew! 

Despite the chance of time and distance, grew 
The union, that in mystery began; 

This was the sign, and in its hope we two 
Make ready for the Brotherhood of Man. 



So soul to soul does boldly kinship claim 

For them that know the master-word and clue; 
So secret friendship kindles into flame. 

Fired by the spark that smoulders, out of view. 

Thus leaps the prophecy the sad world through — 
Truth marches ever onward — in her van 

The Cognoscenti, leagued with purpose true, 
Make ready for the Brotherhood of Man. 



Who wove this human web upon the frame 

Of the round earth, and its great pattern drew, 
To make the fabric of His glorious aim — 

He knows the warp and woof and every hue; 

He knows the strands of life, and how pursue, 
Appearing, disappearing, by His plan. 

The threads that knit the souls illumined, who 
Make ready for the Brotherhood of Man. 



ENVOY 

O Cognoscenti, by your light subdue 

The night of Ignorance, and Error's ban! 

The Ages' Promise, ye, O blessed Few; 
Make ready for the Brotherhood of Man! 

Gelett Burgess 



BALLADES 199 



"FROM BATTLE, MURDER AND SUDDEN DEA 11 
GOOD LORD, DELIVER US" 

What of this prayer which myriad skies 

Hear from the shrines where tired men kneel, 

Godward upturning anguished eyes, 

Clasping gaunt hands in strong appeaL'' 
What of this fear that worn lives feel? 

Why should some strain their labouring breath, 
Since they must gain not woe but weal, 

From battle, murder and sudden death! 

Is it not well with him who dies 

Flushed amid smoke and flash of steel; 
Stabbed by some traitor's swift surprise; 

Stricken by doom no signs reveal? 

Ruin and wrong can no more deal 
Blows beneath which (man's record saith) 

Men ask deliverance, while they reel, 
From battle, murder and sudden death! 

Can one so dead be harmed by lies, 

Tortured by wounds smiles ill conceal? 

Can love bring loss, or desire devise 
Vain visions, or grim fate's iron heel 
Brand both on brow and soul its seal. 

Till, wretched as He of Nazareth, 

Man loathes the life he yet prays to steal 

From battle, murder and sudden death? 



ENVOI 

Waifs that on life's tide sink and rise, 
Chaff that each chance wind winnoweth. 

Why dread God's rest that comes, a prize 
From battle, murder and sudden death? 

John Moran 



200 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



THE MARSH OF ACHERON 

Between the Midnight and the Morn, 

The under-world my soul espied; 
I saw the shades of men outworn, 

The Heroes fallen in their pride; 

I saw the marsh-lands drear and wide, 
And many a ghost that strayed thereon; 

"Still must I roam," a maiden sighed, 
"The sunless marsh of Acheron." 

"And is thy fate, thus hope-forlorn?" 
"Yea, even so," the shade replied, 

"For one I wronged in life hath sworn 
In hatred ever to abide: 
The lover seeketh not the bride, 

But aye, with me, his heart dreams on. 
Asleep in these cold mists that hide 

The sunless marsh of Acheron. 

"And still for me will Lacon mourn, 

And still my pardon be denied: 
Ah, never shall I cross the bourne 

That Dead from Living doth divide. 

Yet I repent me not!" she cried, 
"Nay — only that mine hour is gone; 

One memory hath glorified 
The sunless marsh of Acheron." 

Ah, Princess! when iAy ghost shall glide 
Where never star nor sunlight shone 

See thou she tarry not beside 
The sunless marsh of Acheron. 

Graham R. Toms on 



BALLADES 201 



FOOT-NOTE FOR IDYLS 

"Le Sicilien chantait — mais c'est, ma foy, bien drole" 

— Theodore Passerat. 

'Mongst ail immortals tardiest is their tread! 
Dear and desired^ they tread with dainty jeet. 
By whose dear advent all are comforted 
'Mongst mortal menl Thus, thus, thy verses greet 
The Coming Hours — those Hours that from the heat 
And mirth and friendly girls of Sicily, 
Unheeding, haled thee to hell's minstrels'-seat, 
To edify austere Persephone. 

The living may forget; only the dead 
Are ho-peless! sang blithe Corydon, where beat 
Bright waves upon bright sands, and overhead 
Pines murmured benisons. Now is it sweet 
To rhyme of this in thy less glad retreat, 
Theocritus, who badest that song be 
Immortal? and dost thou find that song meet 
To edify austere Persephone? 

Now all old hours and all old years are sped 
What profits it with thee if men repeat 
Or all or anything thy live lips said? 
Thou hast forgot Bombyca's ivory feet, 
The shrill cicala^'s chirp, the lambkins' bleat, 
And Lacon's honied song on Helyke. 
What profits thee the honied sound of it 
To edify austere Persephone? 

Lord of glad songs, for us the winding-sheet, 
For thee the funeral pyre — built near the sea, — 
Bids singing cease, and songless lips compete 
To edify austere Persephone. 

James Branch Cabell 



202 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF TRUISMS 

Gold or silver every day, 

Dies to grey. 
There are knots in every skein. 
Hours of work and hours of play 

Fade away 
Into one immense Inane. 
Shadow and substance, chaff and grain, 

Are as vain 
As the foam or as the spray. 
Life goes crooning, faint and fain, 

One refrain — 
"If it could be always May!" 

Though the earth be green and gay, 

Though, they say, 
Man the cup of heaven may drain; 
Though his little world to sway, 

He display 
Hoard on hoard of pith and brain, 
Autumn brings a mist and rain 

That constrain 
Him and his to know decay. 
Where undimmed the lights that wane 

Would remain, 
If it could be always May. 

Yea, alas, must turn to Nay, 

Flesh to clay. 
Chance and Time are ever twain. 
Men may scoff and men may pray, 

But they pay 
Every pleasure with a pain. 
Life may soar and Fortune deign 

To explain 
Where her prizes hide and stay; 
But we lack the lusty train 

We should gain 
If it could be always May. 



BALLADES 203 



ENVOY 



Time the pedagogue his cane 

Might retain, 

But his charges all would stray 

Truanting in every lane — 

Jack with Jane! — 

If it could be always May. 

W. E. Henley 



A BALLAD OF HEROES 

O conquerors and heroes, say — 

Great Kings and Captains tell me this, 
Now that you rest beneath the clay 

What profit lies in victories? 

Do softer flower-roots twine and kiss 
The whiter bones of Charlemain? 

Our crownless heads sleep sweet as his, 
Nozv all your victories are in vain. 

All ye who fell that summer's day 

When Athens lost Amphipolis, 
Who blinded by the briny spray 

Fell dead i' the sea at Salamis, 

You captors of Thyreatis, 
Who bear yourselves a heavier chain. 

With your young brother, Bozzaris, 
"Now all your victories are in vain. 

And never Roman armies may 

Rouse Hannibal where now he is. 
When Caesar makes no king obey, 

And fast asleep lies Lascaris; 

Who fears the Goths or Khan-Yenghlz? 
Not one of all the paynim train 

Can taunt us with Nicopolis, 
How all your victories are in vain. 



204 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

What reck you Spartan heroes, pray, 

Of Arcady or Argolis? 
When one barbarian boy to-day 

Would fain be king of all of Greece. 

Brave knights, you would not stir I wis, 
Altho' the very Cross were ta'en; 

Not Rome itself doth Ca:sar miss. 
Now all your victories are in vain. 

ENVOY 

O kings, bethink how little is 

The good of battles or the gain — 

Death conquers all things with his peace 
Now all your victories are in vain. 

A. Mary F. Robinson 



A BALLAD OF HEROES 

"Now all your victories are in vain." 

A. Mary F. Robinson 

Because you passed, and now are not, — 

Because, in some remoter day. 
Your sacred dust from doubtful spot 

Was blown of ancient airs away, — 

Because you perished, — must men say 
Your deeds were naught, and so profane 

Your lives with that cold burden? Nay, 
The deeds you wrought are not in vain! 

Though, it may be, above the plot 
That hid your once imperial clay, 

No greener than o'er men forgot 
The unregarding grasses sway; — 
Though there no sweeter is the lay 

From careless bird, — though you remain 
Without distinction of decay, — 

The deeds you wrought are not in vain! 



BALLADES 205 

No. For while yet in tower or cot 

Your story stirs the pulses' play; 
And men forget the sordid lot — 

The sordid care, of cities gray; — 

While yet, beset in homelier fray, 
They learn from you the lesson plain 

That Life may go, so Honour stay, — 
The deeds you wrought are not in vain! 



Heroes of old! I humbly lay 
The laurel on your graves again; 

Whatever men have done, men may, — 
The deeds you wrought ^re not in vain. 
Austin Dob son 

BALLADE OF THE JOURNEY'S END 

Those far, fair lands our feet have trod — 

The journey that was never done — 
The dreams that followed us golden shod — 

All mad adventure 'neath the sun. 
Ships in the trough of a waste sea spun — 

The treasuries of outlawed Kings — 
And the white walls of Babylon; 

Ah! woe is me for all these things! 

Your staff and scrip are laid aside 

And all my golden minstrelsy; 
We sail no more at the turn of the tide 

In a captured vessel out at sea. 
Oh, fallen and sick and tired are we! 

Sleek sloth about us twines and clings; 
And where is the sword that should set us free?- 

Ah! woe is me for all these things! 

The street lamps in a dreary line 

Glow through the dusk with venomous eyes. 
We stir the fire and pour the wine. 

For we have done with enterprise. 



206 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

The anxious town about us lies; 

Another song the shrill wind sings 
Than that which startled the morning skies — 

Ah! woe is me for all these things! 

ENVOI 

A sudden gust and a rattle of rain, 

And a thought which leaps in the heart and stings; 
Drr.w the curtains close round the window pane! 

Ah! woe is me for all these things! 

Lady Margaret Sackville 



THE HOIDENS 

"Au point du premier jour, dans I'enfance du tout." 

— Antoine Riczi. 

When the Morning broke before us 
Came the wayward Three astraying, 
Chattering in babbling chorus, 
(Obloquies of ^ther saying), — 
Hoidens that, at pegtop playing, 
Flung their Top where yet it whirls 
Through the coil of clouds unstayirg; 
For the Fates are captious girls. 



WAy, ufon that Toy before us 
Insects cluster! Hear them sayingy 
In the quaintest shrillest chorus: — 
'Life affords no time for playing! 
And for each that goes astraying, 
Featly as a planet whirls 
Drops the stroke of doom unstaying, 
For the Fates are captious girls.' 



BALLADES 207 



LACHESIS 

La, I thought it reeled before us 
Tmnbling, lurching, stumbling, stray ingy 
In some sort of mumbling chorus! 
Now I see them at their flaying — 
/ too see, — and hear them saying: — 
'Note with what fixed aim life whirls 
Onward to set goals unstaying, 
For the Fates are captious girls.' 



I Sisters, I ayn tired of straying. 

Catch the Toy while yet it whirls! 
Cleanse the Toy, ajid end our flaying! 

— For the Fates are captious girls, 

James Branch Cabell 

BALLADE OF A GARDEN 

With plash of the light oars swiftly plying, 
The sharp prow furrows the watery way; 

The ripples' reach as the bank is dying, 

And soft shades slender, and long lights play 
In the still dead heat of the drowsy day, 

As on I sweep with the stream that flows 
By sleeping lilies that lie astray 

In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows. 

There ever a whispering wind goes sighing. 

Filled with the scent of the new-mown hay, 
Over the flower hedge peering and prying. 

Wooing the rose as with words that pray; 

And the waves from the broad bright river bay 
Slide through clear channels to dream and doze, 

Or rise in a fountain's silver spray 
In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows. 



208 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

The sweet white rose with the red rose dying, 

Blooms where the summer follows the May, 
Till the streams be hid by the lost leaves lying, 

That autumn shakes where the lilies lay. 

But nov/ all bowers and beds are gay 
And no rain ruffles the flower that blows, 

And still on the water soft dreams stay 
In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows. 

ENVOI 

Before the blue of the sky grows grey 

And the frayed leaves fall from the faded rose, 

Love's lips shall sing what the day-dreams say 

In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows. 

Arthur Reed Rofes 



A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND 

I hid my heart in a nest of roses, 

Out of the sun's way, hidden apart; 
In a softer bed than the soft white snow's is. 

Under the roses I hid my heart. 

Why would it sleep not? why should it start, 
When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred? 

What made sleep flutter his wings and part? 
Only the song of a secret bird. 

Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes. 

And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart; 
Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas dozes. 

And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art. 

Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smart? 
Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred? 

What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart? 
Only the song of a secret bird. 

The green land's name that a charm encloses, 
It never was writ in the traveller's chart, 



BALLADES 209 

And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is, 
It never was sold in the merchant's mart. 
The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart, 

And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard; 
No hound's note wakens the wildwood hart. 

Only the song of a secret bird. 



In the world of dreams I have chosen my part, 
To sleep for a season and hear no word 

Of true love's truth or of light love's art, 
Only the song of a secret bird. 

Algernon Charles Szvinburne 

BALLADE OF THE DREAMLAND ROSE * 

Where the waves of burning cloud are rolled 

On the farther shore of the sunset sea, 
In a land of wonder that none behold, 

There blooms a rose on the Dreamland Tree. 

It grows in the Garden of Mystery 
Where the River of Slumber softly flows 

And whenever a dream has come to be 
A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose. 

In the heart of the tree, on a branch of gold, 

A silvern bird sings endlessly 
A mystic song that is ages old, 

A mournful song in a minor key. 

Full of the glamour of faery; 
And whenever a dreamer^s ears unclose 

To the sound of that distant melody, 
A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose. 

Dreams and visions in hosts untold 
Throng around on the moonlit lea; 

Dreams of age that are calm and cold, 
Dreams of youth that are fair and free, 

* Copyright 1915 by Brian Hooker. 



210 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Dark with a lone heart's agony, 
Bright with a hope that no one knows — 

And whenever a dream and a dream agree, 
A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose. 



Princess, you gaze in a reverie 

Where the drowsy firelight redly glows; 
Slowly you raise your eyes to me — 

A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose. 

Brian Hooker. 



A BALLADE OF ROSES 

To 'p66ov TO Tuv kpuTuv. 

When Venus saw Ascanius sleep 

On sweet Cythera's snow-white roses 
His face like Adon's made her weep, 

And long to kiss him where he dozes; 
But fearing to disturb the boy, 

She kissed the pallid blooms instead, 
Which blushed and kept their blush for joy, 

When Venus kissed white roses red. 

Straight of these roses she did reap 

Sufficient store of pleasant posies. 
And coming from Cythera's steep 

Where every fragrant flower that grows is, 
She tossed them for the winds to toy 

And frolic with till they were dead. 
Heaven taught the earth a fair employ 

When Venus kissed white roses red. 

For each red rose the symbol deep 
In its sad, happy heart encloses 

Of kisses making love's heart leap. 

And every summer wind that blows Is 



BALLADES 21 1 

A prayer that ladies be not coy 

Of kisses ere brief life be sped. 
There gleamed more gold in earth's alloy 

When Venus kissed white roses red. 

ENVOY 

All lovers true since windy Troy 

Flamed for a woman's golden head, 
You gained surcease from life's annoy 

When Venus kissed white roses red. 

Justin Huntley McCarthy 

A BALLADE OF IRRESOLUTION 

Isolde, in the story old. 

When Ireland's coast the vessel nears, 

And Death were fairer to behold, 

To Tristan gives "the cup that clears." 

Straight to their fate the helmsman steers: 

Unknowing, each the potion sips. . . . 

Comes echoing through the ghostly years 

"Give me the philtre of thy lips!" 

Ah, that like Tristan I were bold! 

My soul into the future peers. 

And passion flags, and heart grows cold, 

And sicklied resolution veers. 

I see the Sister of the Shears 

Who sits fore'er and snips, and snips. . . . 

Still falls upon my inward ears, 

"Give me the philtre of thy lips!" 

Hero of lovers, largely soul'd! 
Imagination thee enspheres 
With song-enchanted wood and wold 
And casements fronting magic meres. 
Tristan, thy large example cheers 
The faint of heart; thy story grips! — 
My soul again that echo hears, 
"Give me the philtre of thy lips!" 



212 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



Sweet sorceress, resolve my fears! 
He stakes all who Elysium clips. 
What tho' the fruit be tares and tears! — 
Give me the philtre of thy lips! 

"^ Bert Lesion Taylor 



BALLADE OF MY LADY'S BEAUTY* 

Squire Adam had two wives, they say, 

Two wives had he, for his delight; 
He kissed and clypt them all the day. 

And clypt and kissed them all the night. 

Now Eve like ocean foam was white, 
And Lillith, roses dipped in wine. 

But though they were a goodly sight 
No lady is so fair as mine. 

To Venus some folk tribute pay. 

And Queen of Beauty she is hight; 
And Sainte Marie the world doth sway 

In cerule napery bedight. 

My wonderment these twain invite, 
Their comeliness it is divine; 

And yet I say in their despite, 
No lady is so fair as mine. 

Dame Helen caused a grievous fray, 

For love of her brave men did fight; 
The eyes of her made sages fey 

And put their hearts in woful plight; 

To her no rhymes will I indite. 
For her no garlands will I twine, 

Though she be made of flowers and light. 
No lady is so fair as mine. 

* From Poems, Essays and Letters by Joyce Kilmer. Copy- 
right 1914, George H, Doran Company, Publishers. 



BALLADES 213 



L ENVOI 



Prince Eros, Lord of lovely might, 
Who on Olympus dost recline, 

Do I not tell the truth aright? 
No lady is so fair as mine. 

Joyce Kilmer 



THE FLIGHT OF NICOLETE 

All bathed in pearl and amber light 

She rose to fling the lattice wide. 
And leaned into the fragrant night. 

Where brown birds sang of summertide 

('Twas Love's own voice that called and cried) 
*Ah, Sweet!' she said, 'I'll seek thee yet. 

Though thorniest pathways should betide 
The fair white feet of Nicolete.' 

They slept, who would have stayed her flight 

(Full fain were they the maid had died!) 
She dropped adown her prison's height 

On strands of linen featly tied. 

And so she passed the garden-side, 
With loose-leaved roses sweetly set, 

And dainty daisies, dark beside 
The fair white feet of Nicolete! 

Her lover lay in evil plight 

(So many lovers yet abide!) 
I would my tongue could praise aright 

Her name, that should be glorified. 

Those lovers now, whom foes divide, 
A little weep, — and soon forget. 

How far from these faint lovers glide 
The fair white feet of Nicolete. 

My Princess, doflF thy frozen pride. 
Nor scorn to pay Love's golden debt; 



214 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Through his dim woodland take for guide 
The fair white feet of Nicolete. 

Graham R. Tomson 

'THE LOVES OF EVERY DAY'* 

He thinks not deep who hears the strain 

Of gentle-hearted Nicolette 
And fears that nevermore again 

To such a tune will love be set 
Of daisies and the foot that let 

Them look but shadows on the way 
To where the olden lovers met; — 

These are the loves of every day. 

The heart that makes of binding chain 

A linked song for Nicolette, 
The heart that ventures perilous pain, 

That needs no counsel, heeds no threat, 
And hearts that hear and answer yet 

The blessing of the holy ray 
Of evening from her minaret, — 

These are the loves of every day. 

Not only shall the story gain 

For Aucassin and Nicolette 
Woods green with an immortal rain; 

But long as human eyes go wet 
For lovers, or till time forget 

That we can love as well as they 
In triumph over mortal fret, — 

These are the loves of every day. 

ENVOY 

Poet, yours is a vain regret 

That Aucassin has gone his way! 
We have him still with Nicolette; — 
These are the loves of every day. 

Witter Bynner 
* From Young Harvard, by Witter Bynner. Copyright by 
Alfred A. Knopf, Publisher. 



BALLADES 215 

A BALLADE OF OLD SWEETHEARTS 
(To M. C.) 

Who is it that weeps for the last year's flowers 

When the wood is aflame with the fires of spring, 
And we hear her voice in the lilac bowers 

As she croons the runes of the blossoming? 

For the same old blooms do the new years bring. 
But not to our lives do the years come so, 

New lips must kiss and new bosoms cling. — 
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.. 



Ah! me, for a breath of those morning hours 
When Alice and I went awandering 

Through the shining fields, and it still was ours 
To kiss and to feel we were shuddering — 
Ah! me, when a kiss was a holy thing. — 

How sweet were a smile from Maud, and oh! 
With Phyllis once more to be whispering. — 

Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago. 



But it cannot be that old Time devours 

Such loves as was Annie's and mine we sing, 
And surely beneficent heavenly powers 

Save Muriel's beauty from perishing; 

And if in some golden evening 
To a quaint old garden I chance to go, 

Shall Marion no more by the wicket sing? — 
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago. 



In these lives of ours do the new years bring 
Old loves as old flowers again to blow? 

Or do new lips kiss and new bosoms cling? — 
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago. 

Richard Le Gallienne 



216 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



A BALLADE OF CALYPSO 

The loud black flight of the storm diverges 

Over a spot in the loud mouthed main, 
Where, crowned with summer and sun, emerges 

An isle unbeaten of wind or rain. 

And here, of its sweet queen grown full fain, 
By whose kisses the whole broad earth seems poor, 

Tarries the wave-worn prince, Troy's bane, 
In the green Ogygian Isle secure. 



To her voice our sweetest songs are dirges. 

She gives him all things, counting it gain. 
Ringed with the rocks and ancient surges, 

How could Fate dissever these twain? 

But him no loves nor delights retain; 
New knowledge, new lands, new loves allure; 

Forgotten the perils, and toils, and pain. 
In the green Ogygian Isle secure. 



So he spurns her kisses and gifts, and urges 

His weak skiff" over the wind-vext plain. 
Till the grey of the sky in the grey sea merges, 

And nights reel round, and waver and wane. 

He sits once more in his own domain. 
No more the remote sea-walls immure. — 

But ah, for the love he shall clasp not again 
In the green Ogygian Isle secure. 



Princes, and ye whose delights remain, 

To the one good gift of the gods hold sure. 

Lest ye, too, mourn, in vain, in vain. 
Your green Ogygian Isle secure. 

Charles G. D. Roberts 



BALLADES 217 



BALLADE OF THE HANGING GARDENS OF 
BABYLON 

The fierce queen wearied, and she smote her hands: 
"Summon my lord, the King," she spake and sighed, 

"I sicken of these steaming shallow lands!" 
Nebuchadnezzar stood there by her side, 
Suppliant. She turned upon him, eagle-eyed; 

"O King, would thou and Babylon ne'er had been! 
I die for pines and storms." "Amytis, bride, 

There shall be hanging gardens for my queen." 

"O for Assyria, where each mountain stands, 

With pine-trees to the peak, and the great stride 

Of the north wind, voiced as a god's commands. 
Shakes forests into music far and wide, 
Iron and granite song; and horsemen ride 

By foam of torrents, laughing, lances keen — 

But I mid ooze and baking bricks must bide. . . ." 

"There shall be hanging gardens for my queen." 

Night fell, and morning rose with crimson bands. 
About her couch the tiring maidens glide. 

And one that wov'e her hair in shining strands 

Spake softly: "Vouch, great queen, to gaze outside, 
Beyond the curtains" — and Amytis cried. 

And laughed and wept for what her eyes had seen — 
Assyria at her window magnified! — 

"There shall be hanging gardens for my queen." 



ENVOI 

"Queen," spake the King, "is thy heart satisfied? 

Unnumbered slaves and Night have wrought this scene- 
The rocks and pines of thy Assyrian pride: 

There shall be hanging gardens for my queen." 

Richard Le Gallienne 



218 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



THE BALLADE OF LOVELACE 

My days for singing and loving are over 

And stark I lie in my narrow bed, 
I care not at all if roses cover 

Or if above me the snovi^ is spread; 

I am weary of dreaming of my sweet dead — 
Vera and Lily and Annie and May, 
And my soul is set on the present fray, 

Its piercing kisses and subtle snares; 
So gallants are conquered, ah wellaway, 

My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs. 

O happy moths that now flit and hover 

From the blossom of white to the blossom of red, 
Take heed, for I was a lordly lover 

Till the little day of my life had sped; 

As straight as a pine tree, a golden head. 
And eyes as blue as an austral bay. 
Ladies, when loosing your satin array, 

Reflect, in my years had you lived, my prayers 
Might have won you from weakly lovers away. 

My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs. 

Through the song of the thrush and the pipe of the plover 

Sweet voices come down through the binding lead; 
O queens that every age must discover 

For men, that Man's delight may be fed; 

Oh, sister queens to the queens I wed 
For the space of a year, a month, a day. 
No thirst but mine could your thirst allay; 

And oh, for an hour of life, my dears. 
To kiss you, to laugh at your lovers' dismay, — 

My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs. 



Prince was I ever of festival gay. 

And time never silvered my locks with grey; 



BALLADES 219 

The love of your lovers is as hope that despairs, 
So think of me sometimes, dear ladies, 1 pray. 
My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs. 

George Moore 



BALLADE OF WOMEN I LOVE * 

Prudence Mears hath an old blue plate 

Hid away in an oaken chest, 
And a Franklin platter of ancient date 

Beareth Amandy Baker's crest; 
What times soever I've been their guest. 

Says I to myself in an undertone: 
"Of womenfolk, it must be confessed, 

These do I love, and these alone." 



Well, again, in the Nutmeg State, 

Dorothy Pratt is richly blest 
With a relic of art and a land eifete — 

A pitcher of glass that's cut, not pressed. 
And a Washington teapot is possessed 

Down in Pelham by Marthy Stone — 
Think ye now that I say in jest 

"These do I love, and these alone"? 



Were Hepsy Higgins inclined to mate, 

Or Dorcas Eastman prone to invest 
In Cupid's bonds, they could find their fate 

In the bootless bard of Crockery Quest. 
For they've heaps of trumpery — so have the rest 

Of those spinsters whose ware I'd like to own; 
You can see why I say with such certain zest, 

"These do I love, and these alone." 

* From Songs and Other Verse by Eugene Field. Copyright 
1911 by Charles Scribner's Sons, Publishers. 



220 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



Prince, show me the quickest way and best 

To gain the subject of my moan; 
We've neither spinsters nor relics out West — 

These do I love, and these alone. 

•v Eugene Field 



BALLADE OF LADIES' NAMES 

Brown's for Lalage, Jones for Lelia, 

Robinson's bosom for Beatrice glows, 
Smith is a Hamlet before Ophelia. 

The glamour stays if the reason goes! 

Every lover the years disclose 
Is of a beautiful name made free. 

One befriends, and all others are foes. 
Anna's the name of names for me. 



Sentiment hallows the vowels of Delia; 

Sweet simplicity breathes from Rose; 
Courtly memories glitter in Celia; 

Rosalind savours of quips and hose, 

Araminta of wits and beaux, 
Prue of puddings, and Coralie 

All of sawdust and spangled shows; 
Anna's the name of names for me. 



Fie upon Caroline, Madge, Amelia — 
These I reckon the essence of prose! — 

Cavalier Katharine, cold Cornelia, 
Portia's masterful Roman nose, 
Maud's magnificence, Totty's toes. 

Poll and Bet with their twang of the sea, 
Nell's impertinence, Pamela's woes! 

Anna's the name of names for me. 



BALLADES 221 



ENVOY 



Ruth like a gillyflower smells and blows, 

Sylvia prattles of Arcadee, 
Sybil mystifies, Connie crows, 

Anna's the name of names for me! 

W. E. Henley 



BALLADE OF THE GIRTON GIRL 

She has just "put her gown on" at Girton, 

She is learned in Latin and Greek, 
But lawn tennis she plays with a skirt on 

That the prudish remark with a shriek. 
In her accents, perhaps, she is weak 

(Ladies are, one observes with a sigh), 
But in Algebra — there she's unique. 

But her forte's to evaluate n. 



She can talk about putting a "spirt on" 

(I admit, an unmaidenly freak), 
And she dearly delighteth to flirt on 

A punt in some shadowy creek; 
Should her bark, by mischance, spring a leak, 

She can swim as a swallow can fly; 
She can fence, she can put with a cleek, 

But her forte's to evaluate n. 



She has lectured on Scopas and Myrton, 

Coins, vases, mosaics, the antique. 
Old tiles with the secular dirt on, 

Old marbles with noses to seek. 
And her Cobet she quotes by the week, 

And she's written on kev and on koX, 
And her service is swift and oblique, 

But her forte's to evaluate tt. 



222 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



Princess, like a rose is her cheek, 

And her eyes are as blue as the sky, 

And I'd speak, had I courage to speak. 
But — her forte's to evaluate tt. 



V 



Andrew Lang 



AN AMERICAN GIRL 

She's had a Vassar education. 

And points with pride to her degrees; 
She's studied household decoration; 

She knows a dado from a frieze. 

And tells Corots from Boldonis; 
A Jacquemart etching, or a Haden, 

A Whistler, too, perchance might please 
A frank and free young Yankee maiden. 



She does not care for meditation; 

Within her bonnet are no bees; 
She has a gentle animation, 

She joins in singing simple glees. 

She tries no trills, no rivalries 
With Lucca (now Baronin Raden), 

With Nilsson or with Gerster; she's 
A frank and free young Yankee maiden. 



I'm blessed above the whole creation, 
Far, far, above all other he's; 

I ask you for congratulation 
On this the best of jubilees: 
I go with her across the seas 

Unto what Poe would call an Aiden, — 
I hope no serpent's there to tease 

A frank and free young Yankee maiden. 



BALLADES 223 

ENVOY 

Princes, to you the western breeze 
Bears many a ship and heavy laden, 

What is the best we send in these? 

A frank and free young Yankee maiden. 

Brander Matthews 



A BALLADE OF BRIDES 

For brides who grace these passing days, 

The poets lyric garlands twine; 
For them the twittering song of praise 

Resounds with many a fulsome line. 

And unproved worth, as half divine. 
Is glorified in tinkling tunes. 

But worthier dames shall bless our wine 
We'll toast the brides of other Junes! 



What though a thoughtless public pays 

Its homage at young Beauty's shrine. 
And wreathes smooth brows with orange sprays, 

With roses and with eglantine, 

Youth's cheeks that glow and eyes that shine 
Are not the most enduring boons. 

O! we who've seen such things decline, 
We'll toast the brides of other Junes! 



Though flowery wreaths and poets' lays 
To grace the new-made bride combine, 

Ol let us rather twine the bays 

For tried and true ones, thine and mine. 
Who share whate'er the fates design 

To bless or blight our nights and noons; 
Good comrades still through rain or shine- 

We'll toast the brides of other Junes! 



224 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



Old Friend! whose bride of Auld Lang Sync 
Still fills thy life with honeymoons, 

Thy glass to mine, my glass to thine — 
We'll toast the brides of other Junes! 

Thomas A, Daly 



BALLADE OF A BACKSLIDER 

Darling, I am growing old! 

Yet, before I pass away. 
Shall these dimming eyes behold 

Woman hold her equal sway; 

I have labored for it — yea, 
I have racked this bulging dome 

To confute the men who say 
"Woman's place is in the Home," 

Darling, I am growing cold 

Toward the suffrage hip-hooray; 
Silver threads among the gold 

Seem my fervor to allay. 

Just as dawns the longed-for day, 
Clear from Jacksonville to Nome, 

I am moved to murmur, "Nay, 
Woman's place is in the Home!" 

Darling, I am growing bold 

As my hair is growing gray! 
You may sneer, or you may scold. 

But I fear no female fray! 

When the ladies got too gay 
In the days of ancient Rome, 

Then began Rome's swift decay — 
Woman's place is in the Home. 



BALLADES 225 

(Princess, privately I pray 

You'll excuse this little pome; 
Just in public, let me bray — 

"Woman's Place is in the Home!") 

Edwin Meade Robinson 

BALLADE TO THE WOMEN 

The poets, extolling the graces 

Of sweet femininity, pay 
Particular court, in most cases. 

To Phyllis or Phoebe or Fay. 

"A toast to the ladies!" they say 

As "ladies" they always address them — 

And bid us bow down to them. Nay! 
We sing the plain "women," God bless them! 

Though light-o'-loves, frail as the laces, 

And satins in which they array 
The charms of their forms and their faces, 

Are "ladies" for their little day. 

The feet of such idols are clay. 
Our wives, when we come to possess them. 

Must loom to us larger than they. 
We sing the plain "women," God bless them! 

Sweet creatures who make the home-places 

As cheerful and bright as they may, 
Whose feminine beauty embraces 

A heart to illumine the way. 

Though skies may be ever so gray; 
Good mothers, whose children caress them 

And hail them as chums at their play 

We sing the plain "women," God bless them! 



ENVOY 



O! Queen, teach the "ladies," we pray, 
Whenever vain notions oppress them. 

Though idly their charms we survey. 

We sing the plain "women," God bless them! 

Thomas A. Daly 



226 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF THE LITTLE THINGS THAT COUNT 

The furrow's long behind my plow — 

My field is strewn with stones of care, 
And trouble gathers thick enow 

As years add silver to my hair. 

Could I an easier path prepare 
For baby feet that start to mount? — 

Save them a bit of wear and tear, — 
And show the little things that count? 

I see a tiny maiden bow 

O'er slate and pencil, in her chair: 
A little pucker on her brow, 

A little tousle in her hair. 

And one wee tear has fallen where 
The crooked figures grin and flount; 

My heart goes reaching to her there — 
I love the little things that count! 

Arithmetic is such a slough — 

A pilgrim's swamp of dull despair, 
But Discipline will not allow 

My hand to point a thoro'fare. 

Harsh figures face us everywhere, 
O'erwhelming in their vast amount; 

Must she so soon their burden bear? — 
I love the little things that count! 

Stern Teacher, must she ever fare 
Alone to Learning's chilly fount? 

There is so much I long to share — 
I love the Little Things That Count! 

Burges Johnson 



BALLADES 227 

A BALLADE OF EVOLUTION 

In the mud of the Cambrian main 

Did our earliest ancestor dive: 
From a shapeless albuminous grain 

We mortals our being derive. 

He could split himself up into five, 
Or roll himself round like a ball; 

For the fittest will always survive, 
While the weakliest go to the wall. 

As an active ascidian again 

Fresh forms he began to contrive, 
Till he grew to a fish with a brain, 

And brought forth a mammal alive. 

With his rivals he next had to strive, 
To woo him a mate and a thrall; 

So the handsomest managed to wive 
While the ugliest went to the wall. 

At length as an ape he was fain 

The nuts of the forest to rive; 
Till he took to the low-lying plain, 

And proceeded his fellow to knive. 

Thus did cannibal men first arrive. 
One another to swallow and maul; 

And the strongest continued to thrive. 
While the weakliest went to the wall. 



ENVOY 

Prince, in our civilised hive 

Now money's the measure of all ; 

And the wealthy in coaches can drive 
While the needier go to the wall. 

Grant Allen 



228 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE MAN * 
(To J. A. Farrer) 

He lived in a cave by the seas, 

He lived upon oysters and foes, 
But his list of forbidden degrees 

An extensive morality shows; 

Geological evidence goes 
To prove he had never a pan, 

But he shaved vf'ixh. a shell when he chose, 
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man! 

He worshipp'd the rain and the breeze. 

He worshipped the river that flows, 
And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees, 

And bogies, and serpents, and crows; 

He buried his dead with their toes 
Tucked up, an original plan. 

Till their knees came right under their nose, 
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man! 

His communal wives, at his ease. 

He would curb with occasional blows; 

Or his State had a queen, like the bees 
(As another philosopher trows) : 
When he spoke, it was never in prose. 

But he sang in a strain that would scan. 

For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose) 

'Twas the manner of Primitive Man! 



Max, proudly }'our Aryans pose. 
But their rigs they undoubtedly ran. 

For, as every Darwinian knows, 
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man! 

Andrew Lang 

* From Ballades and Verses Vain by Andrew Lang. Copy- 
right 1884, by Charles Scribner's Sons, Publishers. 



BALLADES 229 



BALLADE OF CAUTION 

You that climb the trails of air 
Far above the ranges dim 

Toward the starry pastures, where, 
Wonder-eyed, the cherubim 
Watch your sunlit chariot swim, 

Tracing spirals involute 

Clear to Heaven's crystal rim — 

Don't forget the parachute! 



Icarus, the books declare. 

Full of youthful fire and vim, 
Soared too high with little care; 

Down he fell, the stripling slim. 

Blue ^gean's azure brim 
Hides his beauty, cold and mute. 

Shun the fate that conquered him- 
Don't forget the parachute! 



Oh, the vaunting souls that dare 

Heights to daunt the seraphim! 
Oh, their fall to black Despair! 

Oh, the issue, bleak and grim! 

Though your wings be staunch and trim. 
Strong your heart for high pursuit, 

Still, for love of life and limb. 
Don't forget the parachute! 



ENVOI 

Prince (a time-worn pseudonym 
Dear to bards of good repute), 

Be your flight of zeal or whim. 
Don't forget the parachute! 

Arthur Guiterman 



230 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



STORY OF THE FLOWERY KINGDOM 

Fair Sou-Chong-Tee, hy a shimmering brook 
Where ghost-like lilies loomed tall and straight, 
Met young Too-Hi, in a moonlit nook, 
Where they cooed and kissed till the hour was late: 
Then, with lanterns, a mandarin passed in state. 
Named Hoo-Hung-Hoo of the Golden Band, 
Who had wooed the maiden to be Ais mate — 
For these things occur in the Flowery Land. 

Now, Hoo-Hung-Hoo had written a book, 
In seven volumes to celebrate 
The death of the Emperor's thirteenth cook: 
So, being a person whose power was great. 
He ordered a Herald to indicate 
He would blind Too-HI with a red-hot brand 
And marry Sou-Chong at a quarter-past eight, — 
For these things occur in the Flowery Land. 

And the brand was hot, and the lovers shook 
In their several shoes, when by lucky fate 
A Dragon came, with his tail in a crook, — 
A Dragon out of a Nankeen Plate, — 
And gobbled the hard-hearted potentate 
And all of his servants, and snorted, and 
Passed on at a super-cyclonic rate, — 
For these things occur in the Flowery Land. 

The lovers were wed at an early date. 
And lived for the future, I understand, 
In one continuous tete a tete, — 
For these things occur ... in the Flowery Land. 

James Branch Cabell 



BALLADES 231 



BALLAD: BEFORE MY BOOKSHELVES 

Now that the swallow again we see, 

Now daisy-burthened is every mead 
And burthened the air with bird-minstrelsy — 

What book shall I take in my nook to read? 

Will a huge folio serve my need 
From yonder musty and slumberous row? 

All the May-morn on him shall I feed — 
Or the rose-bright tales of Boccaccio? 



Stay! if I took him, asleep should I be 

In a moment, and even the birds would speed 
To their nests, quick-stinting their melody 

As though, all-timeless, dark night were freed. 

Pass on! Yon history! Do you plead 
For a hearing? Mighty of voice, I trow! 

Shall I thrive on some old-world blood-bright deed, 
Or the rose-bright tales of Boccaccio? 



The sweet heaven-showers for the daisied l«a 
Are better than showers from heroes that bleed; 

And the shriek of the clarion would slay the glee 
Of the birds that love but the shepherd's reed — 
Ah! and the lute of the singer! Have heed! 

Here are the poets, with leaves that glow 
Lovelier than lindens': take this, indeed? — 

Or the rose-bright tales of Boccaccio! 



ENVOI 

Birds, I am coming. Do you proceed 
With your lyrics; a lovelier song I know. 

Look, here is a Swinbiirne, and here — base greed! 
Are the rose-bright tales of Boccaccio! 

Nelson Rich Tyerman 



232 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



WITH FITZGERALD'S "OMAR KHAYYAM" 

Eight centuries unheeded by the West! 

Now loved within our hearts; whose daily strait 
Is still to war with wavering unrest, 

To ask irr vain, for aye importunate. 

The ceaseless "why?" whereof we ever wait 
The answering "because," which ringing true 

Would solve the mystery of Life and Fate. 
Omar! the peace you sought we find in you. 

The fabled Paradise wherein the blest 

Lie lotus-eating, lulled in languorous state, 
Measured by later reasonable test 

Seems but at best a doubtful opiate. 

Life is but labour, always to create 
New aims to strive for, and new things to do. 

Could Heaven itself the stress of life abate? 
Omar! the peace you sought we find In you. 

Incurious, we cease the hopeless quest. 
For nobler he who thus can subjugate 

His reckless will, than he with fears opprest. 
Who cries amid his doubts, "Allah is great!" 
"Fac/t his ozvn heaven or hellV why hesitate? 

To-day is ours, to-morrow keeps the clue 
To the great secret, still inviolate. 

Omar! the peace you sought we find in you. 

Shall Fate or we cry to Life's game, "check-mate"! 

Nay, wise men draw it, fools defeat pursue; 
Unconquered, though unconquering, as we wait. 

Omar! the peace you sought we find in you. 

Gleeson White 



BALLADES 233 



BALLADE OF THE CAXTON HEAD 

News! Good News! at the old year's end: 

Lovers of learning, come buy, come buy! 
Now to old Holborn let bookmen wend. 

Though the town be grimy, and grim the sky. 
News! Good News! is our Christmas cry; 

For our feast of reason is richly spread, 
And hungry bookmen may turn and try 

The famous Sign of the Caxton Head. 



Let moralists talk of the lifelong friend; 

But books are the safest of friends, say l! 
The best of good fellows will oft offend; 

But books can never do wrong: for why? 
To their lover's ear, and their lover's eye, 

They are ever the same as in dear years fled; 
And the choicest haunt, till you bid them fly, 

The famous Sign of the Caxton Head. 



In one true fellowship see them blend! 

The delicate pages of Italy; 
Foulis and Baskerville, bad to lend; 

And the strong black letter of Germany: 
Here rare French wonders of beauty lie, 

Wrought by the daintiest of hands long dead: 
All these are waiting, till you draw nigh 

The famous Sign of the Caxton Head. 



L ENVOI 

Bookmen! whose pleasures can never die. 
While books are written, and books are read: 

For the honour of Caxton, pass not by 
The famous Sign of the Caxtoji Head. 

Lionel Johnson 



234 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF THE UNATTAINABLE 

The Books I cannot hope to buy, 

Their phantoms round me waltz and wheel, 

They pass before the dreaming eye, 

Ere Sleep the dreaming eye can seal. 

A kind of literary reel 

They dance; but fair the bindings shine. 

Prose cannot tell them what I feel, — 

The Books that never can be mine! 



There frisk Editions rare and shy, 
Morocco clad from head to heel; 
Shakspearian quartos; Comedy 
As first she flashed from Richard Steele; 
And quaint Defoe on Mrs. Veal; 
And, lord of landing net and line. 
Old Izaak with his fishing creel, — 
The Books that never can be mine! 



Incunables! for you I sigh, 
Black letter, at thy founts I kneel. 
Old tales of Perrault's nursery. 
For you I'd go without a meal! 
For Books wherein did Aldus deal 
And rare Galiot du Pre I pine. 
The watches of the night reveal 
The Books that never can be mine! 



ENVOY 

Prince, hear a hopeless Bard's appeal; 
Reverse the rules of Mine and TWne; 
Make it legitimate to steal 
The Books that never can be mine! 

Andrew Lang 



BALLADES 235 



BALLADE OF BOOKS UNBOUGHT 

Some of the books that I would prize 

I'll buy (within ten years or so)— 
J. Conrad's "Under Western Eyes," 

A good Montaigne (by Florio). 

Old tomes like Holinshed or Stowe 
Would gloriously ballast me, 

And when financial conduits flow, 
Gissing's "By the Ionian Sea." 

John Morley's book "On Compromise," 

A decent set of E. A. Poe; 
Bacon, perhaps, to make me wise; 

And Sanborn's Life of Hank Thoreau. 

Most of the works of Neil Munro, 
That history by Wells (H. G.) 

And (nicest title that I know) 
Gissing's "By the Ionian Sea." 

I'm sure my mind will fertilize 

When I have bought some more Defoe; 
And every time they advertise 

That Merrick set, my passions grow. 

And "Far Away and Long Ago" 
And "Goosequill Papers" (L. I. G.)* 

Will stand upon this shelf, below 
Gissing's "By the Ionian Sea." 



ENVOY 

Booksellers! I soliloquize 

No merely idle rhapsody — 
Some day you'll see a man who buys 

Gissing's "By the Ionian Sea." 

Christofher Morley 

♦ Louise Imogen Guiney. 



236 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF THE TEMPTING BOOK 

Sometimes when 1 sit down at night 
And try to think of something new, 

Some odd conceit that I may write 
And work into a verse or two, 
There often dawns upon my view. 
The 'while my feeble thoughts I nurse, 

A little book in gold and blue — 

"The Oxford Book of English Verse." 



And though I try, in wild aifright 
At thought of all I have to do. 

To keep that volume out of sight. 
If I so much as look askew 
I catch it playing peek-a-boo. 
Then work may go to — pot, or worse! 

I'm giving up the evening to 

"The Oxford Book of English Verse." 



O! some for essays recondite. 
And some for frothy fiction sue. 

But give to me for my delight 

One tuneful tome to ramble through; 
To hear the first quaint "Sing Cuccu!" 
And all those noble songs rehearse 

Whose deathless melodies imbue 

"The Oxford Book of English Verse." 



Kind Reader, here's a tip for you: 
Go buy, though skinny be your purse 

And other books of yours be few, 

"The Oxford Book of English Verse." 

Thomas A. Daly 



BALLADES 237 



A BALLADE OF A BOOK-REVIEWER 

I have not read a rotten page 

Of "Sex-Hate" or "The Social Test," 

And here comes "Husks" and "Heritage" . 

Moses, give us all a rest! 
"Ethics of Empire"! ... I protest 

1 will not even cut the strings, 

I'll read "Jack Redskin on the Quest" 
And feed my brain with better things. 



Somebody wants a Wiser Age 
(He also wants me to invest) ; 
Somebody likes the Finnish Stage 
Because the Jesters do not jest; 
And grey with dust is Dante's crest. 
The bell of Rabelais soundless swings; 
And the winds come out of the west 
And feed my brain with better things. 



Lord of our laughter and our rage. 
Look on us with our sins oppressed! 
I, too, have trodden mine heritage. 
Wickedly wearying of the best. 
Burn from my brain and from my breast 
Sloth, and the cowardice that clings. 
And stiffness and the soul's arrest: 
And feed my brain with better things. 



Prince, you are host and I am guest. 
Therefore I shrink from cavillings . . . 
But I should have that fizz suppressed 
And feed my brain with better things. 

G. K. Chesterton 



238 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



THE BALLAD OF IMITATION 

"C'est imiter quelqu'un que de planter des choux." 

— Alfred de M us set. 

If they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played 

Is nought but a copy of Chopin or Spohr; 
That the ballad you sing is but merely "conveyed" 

From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore; 

That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score, 
That is not as out-worn as the "Wandering Jew," 

Make answer — Beethoven could scarcely do more — 
That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! 



If they tell you. Sir Artist, your light and your shade 

Are simply "adapted" from other men's lore; 
That — plainly to speak of a "spade" as a "spade" — 

You've "stolen" your grouping from three or from four; 

That (however the writer the truth may deplore), 
'Twas Gainsborough painted your "Little Boy Blue"; 

Smile only serenely — though cut to the core — 
For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! 



And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed 

If they whisper your Epic — "Sir Eperon d'Or" — 
Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed 

In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store; 

That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore 
That you "lift" or "accommodate" all that you do; 

Take heart — though your Pegasus' withers be sore — 
For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! 



PosTCRiPTUM. — And you, whom we all so adore. 
Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new! — 

One word in your ear. There were Critics before. 
And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! 

Austin Dobson 



BALLADES 239 



THE BALLADE OF ADAPTATION 

The native drama's sick and dying, 

So say the cynic critic crew: 
The native dramatist is crying — 

"Bring me the paste! Bring me the glue! 

Bring me the pen, and scissors, too! 
Bring me the works of E. Augier! 

Bring me the works of V. Sardou! 
I am the man to write a play!" 



For want of plays the stage is sighing, 

Such is the song the wide world through: 
The native dramatist is crying — 

"Behold the comedies I brew! 

Behold my dramas not a few! 
On German farces I can prey. 

And English novels I can hew: 
/ am the man to write a play!" 



There is, indeed, no use denying 

That fashion's turned from old to new: 

The native dramatist is crying — 

"Moliere, good-bye! Shakespeare, adieu! 
I do not think so much of you. 

Although not bad, you've had your day, 
And for the present you won't do. 

I am the man to write a play!" 



Prince of the stage, don't miss the cue, 

A native dramatist, I say 
To every cynic critic, "Pooh! 

I am the man to write a play!" 

Brander Matthews 



2+0 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

A VERY WOFUL BALLADE OF THE ART CRITIC 

(To E. A. Abbey) 

A spirit came to my sad bed, 
And weary sad that night was I, 
Who'd tottered, since the dawn was red. 
Through miles of Grosvenor Gallery, 
Yea, leagues of long Academy 
Awaited me when morn grew white, 
'Twas then the Spirit whispered nigh, 
"Take up the pen, my friend, and write! 

"Of many a portrait grey as lead, 
Of many a mustard-coloured sky. 
Say much, where little should be said. 
Lay on thy censure dexterously. 
With microscopic glances pry 
At textures, Tadema's delight. 
Praise foreign swells, they always cry. 
Take up the pen, my friend, and write!" 

I answered, " 'Tis for daily bread, 

A sorry crust, I ween, and dry. 

That still, with aching feet and head, 

I push this lawful industry, 

'Mid pictures hung or low, or high, 

But, touching that which I indite, 

Do artists hold me lovingly? 

Take up the pen, my friend, and write." 

The Spirit writeth in form of 

ENVOY 

"They fain would black thy dexter eye, 
They hate thee with a bitter spite, 
But scribble since thou must, or die, 
Take up the pen, my friend, and write!" 

Andrew Lang 



BALLADES 241 

THE BALLADE OF FACT AND FICTION 



When in the parlor car we speed 

And rattle over hill and dale, 
We do not greatly care to read, 

And turn away aghast and pale 

From the wares the newsboy has for sale, 
Until, by some chance scene perplexed. 

We turn the page ;.nd find — without fail — 
(To Be Continued in Our Next.) 



Although we wish to know, indeed, 

If the Scout discovers Big Knife's trail; 
If the Pirate's well-laid plots succeed; 

If the Cabin-boy harpoons that whale; 

If the Maid is forced to take the veil; 
If the Villain's from his purpose flexed, 

And if the Burglar breaks his jail — 
(To Be Continued in Our Next.) 

in. 

Young men and maidens, we must take heed, 

When Cupid lets us out on bail; 
Nor shall our fancy, lightly freed. 

Prevent our kneeling at the rail 

Where priests confirm the fetters frail. 
And "Love each other" take for text: 

In Marriage is Courtship — somewhat stale — 
To be continued in our next. 

envoy 

Oh, moralists, whose plaints exhale, 
By problems of existence vexed. 

Remember, Life is but a tale 
To be continued in our next. 

Brander Matthews 



242 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF DIME NOVELS 

Gone are the tales that once we read! 

And none that come within our ken 
May equal those that filled the head 

Of many a worthy citizen 

Who thrilled with boyish rapture, when, 
In retribution stern and just, 

"The deadly rifle spoke, — and then 
Another redskin bit the dust." 



We had no malice, not a shred; 

For which of us would hurt a wren? 
Not blood, but ink was what we shed; 

And yet, we bore ourselves like men! 

With Buckhorn Bill and Bigfoot Ben 
In clutch of steel we put our trust, 

Until, deprived of oxygen, 
Another redskin bit the dust. 



On moccasins with silent tread 

We tracked our foes through marsh and fen. 
We rescued maidens sore bestead 

From savage thrall and outlaw's den. 

We feared no odds of one to ten. 
Nor hatchet stroke nor bowie thrust. 

While still, in wood or rocky glen, 
Another redskin bit the dust. 



ENVOI 

Take up the long neglected pen. 
Redeem its valiant steel from rust. 

And scrawl those magic words again: 
"Another redskin bit the dust!" 

Arthur Gidterman 



BALLADES 243 

BALLADE OF THE OUBLIETTE* 

And deeper still the deep-down oubliette, 
Down thirty feet below the smiling day. 

— Tennyson. 

Sudden in the sun 
An oubliette winks. Where is he? Gone. 
— Mrs. Browning. 

Gaoler of the donjon deep — 
Black from pit to parapet — 
In whose depths forever sleep 
Famous bores whose sun has set, 
Daily ope the portal; let 
In the bores who daily bore. 
Thrust — sans sorrow or regret — 
Thrust them through the Little Door. 

Warder of Oblivion's keep — 
Dismal dank, and black as jet — 
Through the fatal wicket sweep 
All the pests we all have met. 
Prithee, overlook no bet; 
Grab them — singly, by the score — 
And, lest they be with us yet. 
Thrust them through the Little Door. 

Lead them to the awful leap 

With a merry chansonette; 

Push them blithely off the steep; 

We'll forgive them and forget. 

Toss them, like a cigarette. 

To the far Plutonian floor. 

Drop them where they'll cease to fret — 

Thrust them through the Little Door. 

Keeper of the Oubliette, 

Wouldst thou have us more and more 

In thine everlasting debt — 

Thrust them through the Little Door. 

Bert Leston Taylor 
* From T/ie So-Called Human Race by B. L. Taylor. Copy- 
right 1922 by Alfred A. Knopf, Publisher, 



244 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF CRYING FOR THE MOON 

There are moons of all quarters and kinds, 

There's the moon of the Poacher's delight, 
And the Harvester's Moon when the hinds 

Lead home the brown barley all night. 
So brilliant she is and so bright; 

There's a Hunting Moon men watch the sky for, 
And Dan Russell prepares him for flight, 

But, ah me, for the Moon that I cry for! 



There's the little, new sickle one finds 

When (results, I admit, have been slight!) 

I uncover my head to the winds 

And wish with the whole of my might; 

There are shields of full silver alight 

From the nights of lost Junes one might die for,- 

Old Thames flowing golden and white. 
But, ah me, for the Moon that I cry for! 



And in all of her beauty that blinds, 

And in all of her majesty dight, 
'Twasi Dian (in Dorian minds) 

Who darkling sought Latmos's height. 
And, lost in the pines and the night, 

The lips of her shepherd she'd sigh for. 
As Dolly the Milking-Maid might. 

But, ah me, for the Moon that I cry for! 



Princess, I'm in sorriest plight, 

And I lack me the tongue to say why for, 
But read me a little a-right — 

AA. me, for the Moon that I cry for! 

Patrick R. Chalmers 



BALLADES 245 



THE OPTIMIST 

Heed not the folk who sing or say 

In sonnet sad or sermon chill, 
'Alas! alack! and well-a-day! 

This round world's but a bitter pill!' 

Poor porcupines of fretful quill! 
Sometimes we quarrel with our lot: 

We, too, are sad and careful — still. 
We'd rather be alive than not. 

What though we wish the cats at play 
Would some one else's garden till ; 

Though Sophonisba drop the tray 

And all our worshipped Worcester spill, 
Though neighbours 'practise' loud and shrill, 

Though May be cold and June be hot, 

Though April freeze and August grill, — 

We'd rather be alive than not. 

And, sometimes, on a summer's day 

To self and every mortal ill 
We give the slip, we steal away, 

To lie beside some sedgy rill; 

The darkening years, the cares that kill, 
A little while are well forgot; 

Deep in the broom upon the hill 
We'd rather be alive than not. 

Pistol, with oaths didst thou fulfil 
The task thy braggart tongue begot. 

We eat our leek with better will, 
We'd rather be alive than not. 

Graham R. Tomson 



246 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF SCHOPENHAUER'S PHILOSOPHY 

Wishful to add to my mental power, 

Avid of knowledge and wisdom, I 
Pondered the Essays of Schopenhauer, 

Taking his terrible hills on high. 

Worried I was, and a trifle shy, 
Fearful I'd find him a bit opaque! 

Thus does he say, with a soul-sick sigh: 
"The best you get is an even break." 



Life, he sayS; is awry and sour; 

Life, he adds, is sour and awry; 
Love, he says, is a withered flower; 

Love, he adds, is a dragon-fly; 

Love, he swears, is the Major Lie; 
Life, he vows, is the Great Mistake; 

No one can beat it, and few can tie. 
The best you get is an even break. 



Women, he says, are clouds that lower; 

Women dissemble and falsify. 
(Those are things that The Conning Tower 

Cannot asseverate or deny.) 

Futile to struggle, and strain, and try; 
Pleasure is freedom from pain and ache; 

The greatest thing you can do is die — 
The best you get is an even break. 



L ENVOI 

Gosh, I feel like a real good cry! 

Life, he says, is a cheat, a fake. 
Well, I agree with the grouchy guy — 

The best you get is an even break. 

Franklin P. Adams 



BALLADES 247 



A BALLADE OF SUICIDE 

The gallows in my garden, people say, 
Is new and neat and adequately tall. 
I tie the noose on in a knowing way 
As one that knots his necktie for a ball; 
But just as all the neighbors — on the wall — 
Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!" 
The strangest whim has seized me. . . . After all 
I think I will not hang myself today. 



To-morrow is the time I get my pay — 
My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall — 
1 see a little cloud all pink and grey — 
Perhaps the rector's mother will not call — 
I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall 
That mushrooms could be cooked another way — 
I never read the books of Juvenal — 
I think I will not hang myself today. 



The world will have another washing day; 

The decadents decay; the pedants fall; 

And H. G. Wells has found that children play, 

And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall; 

Rationalists are growing rational — 

And through thick woods one finds a stream astray, 

So secret that the very sky seems small — 

I think I will not hang myself today. 



ENVOI 

Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal, 
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way; 
Even todav vour royal head may fall — 
I think I will not hang myself today. 

Gilbert K. Chesterton 



248 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF THE ANCIENT WHEEZE 

I wonder if, sunning in Eden's vales, 
Fielding and Smollett still hold sway; 
And Gaffer Chaucer sits swapping tales 
With Old Sam Clemens and Rabelais? 
And then I can hear, 'mid the merry play 
Of wit and laughter's jovial din. 
One or the other guffaw and say: 
"A travelling salesman came to an inn — ." 

Over the scented Elysian swales 
Pan strides piping to nymph and fay; 
But down in the depths of the woodland dales 
A whisper goes round where the men folk stay. 
There's mischief abroad, or my wit's astray — 
Shepherds a-chuckle and fauns a-grin — 
Theocritus starts in the same old way; 
"A travelling salesman came to an inn — .'■* 

This is the password of brother males, 
Linking together the grave and gay, 
Story that never grows old nor stales, 
Jest that is stranger to Time's decay. 
Life scarred veterans, old and gray, 
Skinpy of arm and lank of shin. 
Cackle at thoughts of the old brave fray — 
"A travelling salesman came to an inn — ." 



L ENVOI 

Prince, you are fashioned of mortal clay. 

Tarry a little and quafi a skin. 

I heard a good one the other day — 

"A travelling salesman came to an inn — ." 

Nate Salsbury 
Newman Levy 



BALLADES 2+9 



BALLADE OF OLD LAUGHTER 

When I look back, as daylight closes, 
And count my gains and losses o'er, 

Rough with the smooth; the rue, the roses; 
The lost and lovely that no more 
Come when I knock upon the door, 

Or even answer when I call, 
I see, of all that went before. 

The laughter was the best of all. 



Man's life, some say, a thing of prose is; 

Not so his life — as mine of yore — 
Who on Miranda's breast reposes — 

Ah! God, that fragrant frock she wore! 

Hid honey still at the heart's core 
Her bosom like a hushed snow-fall — 

And yet, for all we kissed and swore. 
The laughter was the best of all. 



Truth after truth old Time discloses, 
But, as we hobble to fourscore. 

Each finds that not as he supposes 

The gains for which he travailed sore: 
Glory or gold, the wine we pcur. 

The face that held our lives in thrall — 
Somehow the bravest grows a bore, 

The laughter was the best of all. 



Prince, much of wisdom heretofore 
Time's patient pages doth bescrawl; 

This is the sum of all our lore — 
The laughter was the best of all. 

Richard Le Gallienne 



BALLADES A DOUBLE REFRAIN 



BALLADE A DOUBLE REFRAIN 

Keeper of promises made in spring, 

Gilder of squalor in lowly cot — 
Ever true and unwavering — 

These are the things that Love is not! 

This is pretty to round the plot 
Of a play, for the playwright knows he must 

Tickle our fancies to boil his pot — 
For Love is a liar we love to trust! 

Passion immortal that poets sing, 

Highest of gifts that the gods allot! 
Healing balm of affliction's sting — 

These are the things that Love is not! 

Ay, we would it were so, God wot! 
Snatch we at apples that turn to dust! 

Learn we wisdom, then? Not a jot, 
For Love is a liar we love to trust! 

Poets and dramatists! Ye who cling 

Still to the old romantic rot. 
Though I am telling a bitter thing, 

These are the things that Love is not! 

Love is a breeze blowing cold and hot, 
A young man's fancy — a withering gust 

Yet, let Love call and we rush to the spot, 
For Love is a liar we love to trust! 

l'envoi 

Princess, I love you! I've quite forgot 
These are the things that Love is not; 
'Tis bitter bread, but I beg a crust. 
For Love is a liar we love to trust! 

Edtvin Meade Robhtson 
253 



254 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

BALLADE OF MIDSUMMER DAYS AND NIGHTS 

(Double Refrain) 

To W. H. 

With a ripple of leaves and a tinkle of streams 
The full world rolls in a rhythm of praise, 
And the winds are one with the clouds and beams — 
Midsummer days! Midsummer days! 
The dusk grows vast; in a purple haze, 
While the West from a rapture of sunset rights, 
Faint stars their exquisite lamps upraise — 
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights! 

The wood's green heart is a nest of dreams. 
The lush grass thickens and springs and sways, 
The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams — 
Midsummer days! Midsummer days! 
In the stilly fields, in the stilly ways. 
All secret shadows and mystic lights, 
Late lovers murmur and linger and gaze — 
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights! 

There's a music of bells from the trampling teams, 
Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze. 
The rich, ripe rose as with incense steams — 
Midsummer days! Midsummer days! 
A soul from the honeysuckle strays. 
And the nightingale as from prophet heights 
Sings to the Earth of her million Mays — 
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights! 



And it's O, for my dear and the charm that stays- 
Midsummer days! Midsummer days! 
It's O, for my Love and the dark that plights — 
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights! 

W. E, Henley 



BALLADES A DOUBLE REFRAIN 25 5 

RAIN AND SHINE 
(Ballade a double refrain) 

The clouds are thick and darkly lower; 

The sullen sodden sky would fain 
Pour down a never-ending shower: 

I hear the pattering of the rain, 

I hear it rattle on the pane. — 
And then I see the mist entwining, 

Nor one position long retain. 
Behold! the gentle sun is shining! 

As though exulting in its power, 

The storm beats down with steady strain ; 
Upon the ivy of the tower 

I hear the pattering of the rain; 

It swiftly sweeps across the plain. — 
And then I see the sky refining, 

And molten with a golden stain. 
Behold! the gentle sun is shining! 

Beneath the storm the cattle cower; 

It beats upon the growing grain. 
And as it breaks both bud and flower, 

I hear the pattering of the rain, — 

From where the clouds too long have lain 
They turn, and show a silver lining, 

A splendid glory comes again. 
Behold! the gentle sun is shining! 



Although like some far, faint refrain, 
I hear the pattering of the rain. 
The storm is past. No more repining — 
Behold! the gentle sun is shining! 

Brander Matthews 



256 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

BALLADE OF YOUTH AND AGE 
(Double Refrain) 

Spring at her height on a morn at prime, 

Sails that laugh from a flying squall, 
Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme — 

Youth is the sign of them, one and all. 

Winter sunsets and leaves that fall, 
An empty flagon, a folded page, 

A tumble-down wheel, a tattered ball — 
These are a type of the world of Age. 

Bells that clash in a gorgeous chime, 

Swords that clatter in outsets tall, 
The words that ring and the fames that climb — 

Youth is the sign of them, one and all. 

Old hymnals prone in a dusty stall, 
A bald blind bird in a crazy cage. 

The scene of a faded festival — 
These are a type of the world of Age. 

Hours that strut as the heirs of time. 

Deeds whose rumour's a clarion-call. 
Songs where the singers their souls sublime — 

Youth is the sign of them, one and all. 

A staff that rests in a nook of wall, 
A reeling battle, a rusted gage. 

The chant of a nearing funeral — 
These are a type of the world of Age. 

ENVOY 

Struggle and sacrifice, revel and brawl — 
Youth is the sign of them, one and all. 
A smouldering hearth and a silent stage — 
These are a type of the world of Age. 

W, E. Henley 



BALLADES A DOUBLE REFRAIN 257 

BALLADE OF WISDOM AND FOLLY 
(A Double Refrain) 

I study wise themes with rigid care, 

Logic and law and philosophy, 
Sermons and science, and I declare 

Wisdom's the goodliest gain for me. 

But when I read with a lively glee 
Rollicking tales of fun and mirth, 

I laugh to myself, and 1 clearly see 
Folly's the fairest thing on earth. 

To copy the masters I oft repair, — 

Of Rubens and Rembrandt a devotee; 
I study line and school with care, — 

Wisdom's the goodliest gain for me. 

Then I see a sketch in a lighter key, 
Ah, line and school were never worth 

This little French bit of frivolity, — 
Folly's the fairest thing on earth. 

I know a girl who is calm and fair. 

Of ancient and noble pedigree; 
She's wise and learned beyond compare, — 

Wisdom's the goodliest gain for me. 

But another holds my heart in fee. 
Without her, life were a dreary dearth; 

Fickle and foolishly fond is she, — 
Folly's the fairest thing on earth. 

l'envoi 

Prince, I am sure you must agree 
Wisdom's the goodliest gain for me. 
But ever I'll give it the widest berth, — 
Folly's the fairest thing on earth. 

Carolyn Wells 



258 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

BALLADE OF THE REAL AND IDEAL 

(Double Refrain) 

O visions of salmon tremendous, 
Of trout of unusual weight, 
Of waters that wander as Ken does, 
Ye come through the Ivory Gate! 
But the skies that bring never a 'spate,' 
But the flies that catch up in a thorn. 
But the creel that is barren of freight, 
Through the portals of horn! 

O drenms of the Fates that attend us 

With prints in the earliest state, 

O bargains in books that they send us, 

Ye come through the Ivory Gate! 

But the tome of a dubious date, 

But the quarto that's tattered and torn, 

And bereft of a title and date. 

Through the portals of horn! 

O dreams of the tongues that commend us. 
Of crowns for the laureate pate, 
Of a Public to buy and befriend us. 
Ye come through the Ivory Gate! 
But the critics that slash us and slate, 
But the people that hold us in scorn. 
But the sorrow, the scathe, and the hate. 
Through the portals of horn! 

ENVOY 

Fair dreams of things golden and great, 
Ye come through the Ivory Gate; 
But the facts that are bleak and forlorn, 
Through the portals of horn! 

Andrew Lang 



BALLADES A DOUBLE REFRAIN 259 



A BALLADE OF DEATH AND TIME 

I hold it truth with him who sweetly sings — 
The weekly music of the Lofidoti Sfhere — 
That deathless tomes the living present brings; 
Great literature is with us year on year. 
Books of the mighty dead, whom men revere, 
Remind me I can make my books sublime. 
But prithee, bay my brow while I am here: 
Why do we always wait for Death and Time? 



Shakespeare, great spirit, beat his mighty wings, 
As I beat mine, for che occasion near. 
He knew, as I, the worth of present things: 
Great literature is with us year on year. 
Methinks I meet across the gulf his clear 
And tranquil eye; his calm reflections chime 
With mine: "Why do we at the present fleer? 
Why do we always wait for Death and Time?" 



The reading world with acclamation rings 
For my last book. It led the list at Weir, 
Altoona, Rahway, Painted Post, Hot Springs: 
Great literature is with us year on year. 
The Bookman gives me a vociferous cheer. 
Howells approves! I can no higher climb. 
Bring then the laurel, crown my bright career. 
Why do we always wait for Death and Time? 



Critics, who pastward, ever pastward peer, 
Great literature is with us year on year. 
Trumpet my fame while I am in my prime. 
Why do we always wait for Death and Time? 

Bert Lesion Taylor 



260 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

THE BALLADE OF PROSE AND RHYME 

(Ballade a double refrain) 

When the roads are heavy with mire and rut, 
In November fogs, in December snows. 

When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut. 
There is place and enough for the pains of prose; — 
But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows, 

And the jasmine-stars to the casement climb, 
And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows, 

Then hey! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme! 

When the brain gets dry as an empty nut, 
When the reason stands on its squares! toes. 

When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut," 
There is place and enough for the pains of prose ;- 
But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows. 

And the young year draws to the "golden prime," — 
And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose, 

Then hey! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme! 

In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut 
In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes," 

In a starched procession of "If" and "But," 

There is place and enough for the pains of prose; — 
But whenever a soft glance softer grows, 

And the light hours dance to the trysting-time. 
And the secret is told "that no one knows," 

Then hey! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme! 



ENVOY 

In the work-a-day world, — for its needs and woes. 
There is place and enough for the pains of prose; 
But whenever the May-bells clash and chime, 
Then hey! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme! 

Austin Dobson 



DOUBLE BALLADES 



•V 



DOUBLE BALLAD 

Of the Singers of the Ti?ne. 



Why are our songs like the moan of the main, 

When the wild winds buffet it to and fro, 
(Our brothers ask us again and again) 

A weary burden of hopes laid low? 

Have birds ceased singing or flowers to blow? 
Is Life cast down from its fair estate? 

This I answer them — nothing mo' — 
Songs afid singers are out of date. 



What shall we sing of? Our hearts are fain. 
Our bosoms burn with a sterile glow. 

Shall we sing of the sordid strife for gain, 
For shameful honour, for wealth and woe, 
Hunger and luxury, — weeds that throw 

Up from one seeding their flowers of hate? 

Can we tune our lutes to these themes? Ah no! 

Songs and singers are out of date. 

III. 

Our songs should be of Faith without stain, 
Of haughty honour and deaths that sow 

The seeds of life on the battle-plain, 
Of lov'es unsullied and eyes that show 
The fair white soul in the deeps below. 

Where are they, these that our songs await 
To wake to joyance? Doth any know? 

Songs and singers are out of date. 
263 



264- LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



IV. 

What have we done with meadow and lane? 

Where are the flowers and the hawthorn-snow? 
Acres of brick in the pitiless rain, — 

These are our gardens for thorpe and stow! 

Summer has left us long ago, 
Gone to the lands where the turtles mate 

And the crickets chirp in the wild-rose row. 
Songs and singers are out of date. 

V. 

We sit and sing to a world in pain; 

Our heartstrings quiver sadly and slow: 
But, aye and anon, the murmurous strain 

Swells up to a clangour of strife and throe, 

And the folk that hearken, or friend or foe, 
Are ware that the stress of the time is great 

And say to themselves, as they come and go, 
Songs and singers are out of date. 

VI. 

Winter holds us, body and brain; 

Ice is over our being's flow; 
Song is a flower that will droop and wane. 

If it have no heaven towards which to grow. 

Faith and beauty are dead, I trow 
Nothing is left but fear and fate: 

Men are weary of hope; and so 
Songs and singers are out of date. 

John Payne 



DOUBLE BALLADES 265 

A DOUBLE BALLAD OF AUGUST 

(1884) 

All Afric, winged with death and fire, 
Pants in our pleasant English air. 
Each blade of grass is tense as wire, 
And all the wood's loose trembling hair 
Stark in the broad and breathless glare 
Of hours whose touch wastes herb and tree, 
This bright sharp death shines everywhere; 
Life yearns for solace toward the sea. 

Earth seems a corpse upon the pyre; 
The sun, a scourge for slaves to bear. 
All power to fear, all keen desire, 
Lies dead as dreams of days that were 
Before the new-born world lay bare 
In heaven's wide eye, whereunder we 
Lie breathless till the season spare: 
Life yearns for solace toward the sea. 

Fierce hours, with ravening fangs that tire 
On spirit and sense, divide and share 
The throbs of thoughts that scarce respire. 
The throes of dreams that scarce forbear 
One mute immitigable prayer 
For cold perpetual sleep to be 
Shed snowlike on the sense of care. 
Life yearns for solace toward the sea. 

The dust of ways where men suspire 
Seems even the dust of death's dim lair. 
But though the feverish days be dire 
The sea-wind rears and cheers its fair 
Blithe broods of babes that here and there 
Make the sands laugh and glow for glee 
With gladder flowers than gardens wear. 
Life yearns for solace toward the sea. 



266 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

The music dies not off the lyre 
That lets no soul alive despair. 
Sleep strikes not dumb the breathless choir 
Of waves whose note bids sorrow spare. 
As glad they sound, as fast they fare, 
As when fate's word first set them free 
And gave them light and night to wear. 
Life yearns for solace toward the sea. 

For there, though night and day conspire 
To compass round with toil and snare 
And changeless whirl of change, whose gyre 
Draws all things deathwards unaware, 
The spirit of life they scourge and scare, 
Wild waves that follow on waves that flee 
Laugh, knowing that yet, though earth despair 
Life yearns for solace toward the sea. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



DOUBLE BALLADE OF LIFE AND FATE 

Fools may pine, and sots may swill, 
Cynics gibe, and prophets rail. 
Moralists may scourge and drill, 
Preachers prose, and fainthearts quail. 
Let them whine, or threat, or wail! 
Till the touch of Circumstance 
Down to darkness sink the scale. 
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance. 

What if skies be wan and chill? 
What if winds be harsh and stale? 
Presently the east will thrill, 
And the sad and shrunken sail. 
Bellying with a kindly gale. 
Bear you sunwards, while your chance 
Sends you back the hopeful hail: — 
"Fate's a fiddler. Life's a dance." 



DOUBLE BALLADES 267 

Idle shot or coming bill, 
Hapless love or broken bail, 
Gulp it (never chew your pilll;, 
And, if Burgundy should fail, 
Try the humbler pot of ale! 
Over all is heaven's expanse. 
Gold's to find among the shale. 
Fate's a fiddler. Life's a dance. 

Dull Sir Joskin sleeps his fill, 
Good Sir Galahad seeks the Grail, 
Proud Sir Pertinax flaunts his frill. 
Hard Sir ^ger dints his mail; 
And the while by hill and dale 
Tristram's braveries gleam and glance, 
And his blithe horn tells its tale: — 
"Fate's a fiddler. Life's a dance." 

Araminta's grand and shrill, 
Delia's passionate and frail, 
Doris drives an earnest quill, 
Athanasia takes the veil: 
Wiser Phyllis o'er her pail. 
At the heart of all romance 
Reading, sings to Strephon's flail: — 
"Fate's a fiddler. Life's a dance." 

Every Jack must have his Jill, 
(Even Johnson had his Thrale!): 
Forward couples — with a will! 
This, the world, is not a jail. 
Hear the music, sprat and whale! 
Hands across, retire, advance! 
Though the doomsman's on your trail, 
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance. 

ENVOY 

Boys and girls, at slug and snail 
And their kindred look askance. 
Pay your footing on the nail: 
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance. 

W. E. Henley 



268 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

A DOUBLE BALLAD OF GOOD COUNSEL 

(Villon) 

Now take your fill of love and glee, 

And after balls and banquets hie; 
In the end ye'll get no good for fee, 

But just heads broken by and by; 

Light loves make beasts of men that sigh; 
They changed the faith of Solomon, 

And left not Samson lights to spy; 
Good luck has he that deals with none! 

Sweet Orpheus, lord of minstrelsy. 

For this with flute and pipe came nigh 
The danger of the dog's heads three 

That ravening at hell's door doth lie; 

Fain was Narcissus, fair and shy, 
For love's love lightly lost and won. 

In a deep well to drown and die; 
Good luck has he that deals with none! 

Sardana, flower of chivalry, 

Who conquered Crete with horn and cry, 
For this was fain a maid to be 

And learn with girls the thread to ply; 

King David, wise in prophecy. 
Forgot the fear of God for one 

Seen washing either shapely thigh; 
Good luck has he that deals with none! 

For this did Amnon, craftily 

Feigning to eat of cakes of rye, 

Deflower his sister fair to see, 

Which was foul incest; and hereby 
Was Herod moved, it is no lie. 

To lop the head of Baptist John 
For dance and jig and psaltery; 

Good luck has he that deals with none! 



DOUBLE BALLADES 269 

Next of myself I tell, poor me, 

How thrashed like clothes at wash was I 

Stark naked, I must needs agree; 
Who made me eat so sour a pie 
But Katherine of Vaucelles? thereby 

Noe took third part of that fun; 

Such wedding-gloves are ill to buy; 

Good luck has he that deals with none! 

But for that young man fair and free 

To pass those young maids lightly by. 
Nay, would you burn him quick, not he; 

Like broom-horsed witches though he fry, 

They are sweet as civet in his eye; 
But trust them, and you're fooled anon; 

For white or brown, and low or high. 
Good luck has he that deals with none! 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



DOUBLE BALLADE OF THE NOTHINGNESS 
OF THINGS 

The big teetotum twirls. 

And epochs wax and wane 
As chance subsides or swirls; 

But of the loss and gain 

The sum is always plain. 
Read on the mighty pall, 
The weed of funeral 

That covers praise and blame, 
The isms and the anities, 

Magnificence and shame, 
"O Vanity of Vanities!" 

The Fates are subtile girls! 

They give us chaff for grain; 
And Time, the Thunderer, hurls. 

Like bolted death, disdain 



270 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

At all that heart and brain 
Conceive, or great or small, 
Upon this earthly ball. 

Would you be knight and dame? 
Or woo the sweet humanities? 

Or illustrate a name? 
O Vanity of Vanities! 

We sound the sea for pearls, 

Or lose them in the drain; 
We flute it with the merles, 

Or tug and sweat and strain; 

We grovel, or we reign; 
We saunter, or we brawl; 
We answer, or we call; 

We search the stars for Fame, 
Or sink her subterranities; 

The legend's still the same: — 
"O Vanity of Vanities!" 

Here at the wine one birls. 

There someone clanks a chain. 
The flag that this man furls 

That man to float is fain. 

Pleasure gives place to pain: — 
These in the kennel crawl. 
While others take the wall. 

SAe has a glorious aim. 
He lives for the inanities. 

What comes of every claim? 
O Vanity of Vanities! 

Alike are clods and earls. 

For sot, and seer, and swain, 
For emperors and for churls. 

For antidote and bane. 

There is but one refrain: 
But one for king and thrall. 
For David and for Saul, 

For fleet of foot and lame. 



DOUBLE BALLADES 271 

For pieties and profanities, 

The picture and the frame — 
"O Vanity of Vanities!" 

Life is a smoke that curls — 

Curls in a flickering skein, 
That winds and whisks and whirls, 

A figment thin and vain. 

Into the vast Inane. 
One end for hut and hall! 
One end for cell and stall! 

Burned in one common flame 
Are wisdoms and insanities. 

For this alone we came: — 
"O Vanity of Vanities!" 

ENVOI 

Prince, pride must have a fall. 
What is the worth of all 

Your state's supreme urbanities? 
Bad at the best's the game. 
Well might the sage exclaim: — 

"O Vanity of Vanities!" 

W. E. Henley 



V 



CHANTS ROYAL 



THE PRAISE OF DIONYSUS 

Chant Royal 

Behold, above the mountains there is light, 
A streak of gold, a line of gathering fire, 
And the dim East hath suddenly grown bright 
With pale aerial flame, that drives up higher 
The lurid mists that of the night aware 
Breasted the dark ravines and coverts bare; 
Behold, behold! the granite gates unclose, 
And down the vales a lyric people flows, 
Who dance to music, and in dancing fling 
Their frantic robes to every wind that blows, 
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. 

Nearer they press, and nearer still in sight, 
Still dancing blithely in a seemly choir; 
Tossing on high the symbol of their rite. 
The cone-tipped thyrsus of a god's desire; 
Nearer they come, tall damsels flushed and fair, 
With ivy circling their abundant hair, 
Onward, with even pace, in stately rows, 
With eye that flashes, and with cheek that glows, 
And all the while their tribute-songs they bring, 
And newer glories of the past disclose, 
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. 

The pure luxuriance of their limbs is white, 
And flashes clearer as they draw the nigher, 
Bathed in an air of infinite delight, 
Smooth without wound of thorn or fleck of mire, 
Borne up by songs as by a trumpet's blare, 
Leading the van to conquest, on they fare; 
Fearless and bold, whoever comes or goes, 
275 



276 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

These shining cohorts of Bacchantes close, 
Shouting and shouting till the mountains ring. 
And forests grim forget their ancient woes, 
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. 

And youths are there for whom full many a night 
Brought "dreams of bliss, vague dreams that haunt and 

tire, 
Who i-ose in their own ecstasy bedight. 
And wandered forth through many a scourging briar. 
And waited shivering in the icy air, 
And wrapped the leopard-skin about them there. 
Knowing, for all the bitter air that froze. 
The time must come, that every poet knows. 
When he shall rise and feel himself a king, 
And follow, follow where the ivy grows. 
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. 

But oh! within the heart of this great flight. 
Whose ivory arms hold up the golden lyre? 
What form is this of more than mortal height? 
What matchless beauty, what inspired ire! 
The brindled panthers know the prize they bear, 
And harmonise their steps with stately care; 
Bent to the morning, like a living rose. 
The immortal splendour of his face he shows, 
And where he glances, leaf and flower and wing 
Tremble with rapture, stirred in their repose, 
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. 



Prince of the flute and ivy, all thy foes 
Record the bounty that thy grace bestows, 
But we, thy servants, to thy glory cling, 
And with no frigid lips our songs compose, 
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. 

Edmund Gosse 



CHANTS ROYAL 277 

THE DANCE OF DEATH 

(After Holbein) 

"Contra vim Mortis 

Non est medicamen in hortis." 

He is the despots' Despot. All must bide, 
Later or soon, the message of his might; 
Princes and potentates their heads must hide. 
Touched by the awful sigil of his right; 
Beside the Kaiser he at eve doth wait 
And pours a potion in his cup of state; 
The stately Queen his bidding must obey; 
No keen-eyed Cardinal shall him affray; 
And to the Dame that wantoneth he saith — 
"Let be, Sweet-heart, to junket and to play." 
There is no King more terrible than Death. 

The lusty Lord, rejoicing in his pride. 
He draweth down; before the armed Knight 
With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride; 
He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight; 
The Burgher grave he beckons from debate; 
He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate, 
Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay; 
No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay; 
E'en to the pyx the Priest he followeth, 
Nor can the Leech his chilling finger stay. 
There is no King more terrible than Death. 

All things must bow to him. And woe betide 

The Wine-bibber, — the Roisterer by night; 

Him the feast-master, many bouts defied. 

Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite; 

Woe to the Lender at usurious rate. 

The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate; 

Woe to the Judge that selleth right for pay; 



278 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Woe to the Thief that like a beast of prey 
With creeping tread the traveller harryeth: — 
These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay. 
There is no King more terrible than Death. 

He hath no pity, — nor will be denied. 

When "the low hearth is garnished and bright, 

Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide. 

And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight; 

He hath no pity for the scorned of fate: — 

He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate, 

Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may; 

Nay, the tired Ploughman, — at the sinking ray,— 

In the last furrow, — feels an icy breath. 

And knows a hand hath turned the team astray. 

There is no King more terrible than Death. 

He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride, 
Blithe with the promise of her life's delight, 
That wanders gladly by her Husband's side. 
He with the clatter of his drum doth fright; 
He scares the Virgin at the convent grate; 
The Maid half-won, the Lover passionate; 
He hath no grace for weakness and decay: 
The tender Wife, the Widow bent and gray. 
The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth, — 
All these he leadeth by the lonely way. 
There is no King more terrible than Death. 



Youth, for whose ear and monishing of late, 

I sang of prodigals and lost estate. 

Have thou thy joy of living and be gay; 

But know not less that there must come a day, — 

Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth, — 

When thine own heart shall speak to thee and say,- 

There is no King more terrible than Death. 

Austin Dobson 



CHANTS ROYAL 279 



CHANT OF THE CHANGING HOURS 

The Hours passed by, a fleet confused crowd; 

With wafture of blown garments bright as fire, 
Light, light of foot and laughing, morning-browed. 

And where they trod the jonquil and the briar 
Thrilled into jocund life, the dreaming dells 
Waked to a morrice chime of jostled bells; — 
They danced; they danced; to piping such as flings 
The garnered music of a million Springs 

Into one single, keener ecstasy; — 
One paused and shouted to my questionings: 

"Lo, I am Youth; I bid thee follow me!" 



The Hours passed by; they paced, great lords and proud. 

Crowned on with sunlight, robed in rich attire; 
Before their conquering word the brute deed bowed, 

And Ariel fancies served their large desire; 
They spake, and roused the mused soul that dwells 
In dust, or, smiling, shaped new heavens and hells, 
Dethroned old gods and made blind beggars kings: 
"And what art thou," I cried to one, "that brings 

His mistress, for a brooch, the Galaxy?" — 
"I am the plumed thought that soars and sings: 

"Lo; I am Song; I bid thee follow me!" 



The Hours passed by, with veiled eyes endowed 

Of dream, and parted lips that scarce suspire. 
To breathing dusk and arrowy moonlight vowed. 

South wind and shadowy grove and murmuring lyre; — 
Swaying they moved, as drows'd of wizard spells 
Or tranc'd with sight of recent miracles, 
And yet they trembled, down their folded wings 
Quivered the hint of sweet withholden things, 

Ah, bitter-sweet in their intensity! 
One paused and said unto my wonderings: 

"Lo, I am Love; I bid thee follow me!" 



280 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

The Hours passed by, through huddled cities loud 
With witless hate and stale with stinking mire: 

So cowled monks might march with bier and shroud 
Down streets plague-spotted toward some cleansing 

Yet, lo! strange lilies bloomed in lightless cells, 
And passionate spirits burst their clayey shells 
And sang the stricken hope that bleeds and clings: 
Earth's bruised heart beat in the throbbing strings, 

And joy still struggled through the threnody! 
One stern Hour said unto my marvelings: 

"Lo, I am Life; I bid thee follow me!" 

The Hours passed by, the stumbling hours and cowed, 

Uncertain, prone to tears and childish ire, — 
The wavering hours that drift like any cloud 

At whim of winds or fortunate or dire, — 
The feeble shapes that any chance expels; 
Their wisdom useless, lacking the blood that swells 
The tensed vein: the hot, swift tide that stings 
With life. Ah, wise! but naked to the slings 

Of fate, and plagued of youthful memory! 
A cracked voice broke upon my pityings: 

"Lo, I am Age; I bid thee follow me!" 

Ah, Youth! we dallied by the babbling wells 
Where April all her lyric secret tells; — 
Ah, Song! we sped our bold imaginings 
As far as yon red planet's triple rings; — 

O Life! O Love! I followed, followed thee! 
There waits one word to end my journeyings: 

"Lo, I am Death; I bid thee follow me!" 

Don Marquis 

CHANT ROYAL OF THE GOD OF LOVE 

O most fair God! O Love both new and old. 
That wert before the flowers of morning blew, 

Before the glad sun in his mail of gold 
Leapt into light across the first day's dew. 



CHANTS ROYAL 281 

That art the first and last of our delight, 
That in the blue day and the purple night 

Holdest the hearts of servant and of king, 

Lord of liesse, sovran of sorrowing. 
That in thy hand hast heaven's golden key, 

And hell beneath the shadow of thy wing, 
TAou art my Lord to whom I bend the kneel 

What thing rejects thy mastery? Who so bold 
But at thine altars in the dusk they sue? 

Even the strait pale Goddess, silver-stoled, 

That kissed Endymion when the spring was new, 

To thee did homage in her own despite, 

When in the shadow of her wings of white 

She slid down trembling from her mooned ring, 
To where the Latmian youth lay slumbering. 

And in that kiss put off cold chastity. 

Who but acclaim, with voice and pipe and string. 

Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee? 

Master of men and gods, in every fold 
Of thy wide vans, the sorceries that renew 

The labouring earth tranced with the winter's cold 
Lie hid, the quintessential charms that woo 

The souls of flowers, slain with the sullen might 

Of the dead year, and draw them to the light. 
Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling: 
Skyward and seaward, whilst thy white palms fling 

Their spells of healing over land and sea, 
One shout of homage makes the welkin ring, 

Thou art my Lord to whom I betid the kneel 

I see thee throned aloft: thy fair hands hold 
Myrtles for joy, and euphrasy and rue: 

Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled. 
And in thine eyes the royal heaven's hue: 

But in thy lips' clear colour, ruddy bright, 

The heart's blood shines of many a hapless wight. 
Thou art not only fair and sweet as Spring: 



282 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Terror and beauty, fear and wondering, 
Meet on thy front, amazing all who see — 

All men do praise thee — ay, and every thing! 
TAou art my Lord to zvhom I bend the kneel 

I fear thee, though I love. Who can behold 
The sheer sun burning in the orbed blue. 

What while the noontide over hill and wold 
Flames like a fire, except his mazed view 

Wither and tremble? So thy splendid sight 

Fills me with mingled gladness and affright. 
Thy visage haunts me in the wavering 
Of dreams, and in the dawn, awakening, 

I feel thy splendour streaming full on me. 
Both joy and fear unto thy feet I bring: 

Thou art my Lord to whom 1 bend the kneel 



God above gods. High and Eternal King! 
Whose praise the symphonies of heaven sing, 

I find no whither from thy power to flee 
Save in thy pinions' vast o'ershadowing: 

Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the kneel 

John Payne 

THE DESTINED MAID: A PRAYER 
(Chant Royal) 

mighty Queen, our Lady of the fire. 
The light, the music, and the honey, all 

Blent in one Power, one passionate Desire 

Man calleth Love — 'Sweet love,' the blessed call- 

1 come a sad-eyed suppliant to thy knee, 
If thou hast pity, pity grant to me; 

If thou hast bounty, here a heart I bring 
For all that bounty 'thirst and hungering. 

O Lady, save thy grace, there is no way 
For me, I know, but lonely sorrowing — 

Send me a maiden meet for love, I pray! 



CHANTS ROYAL 283 

I lay in darkness, face down in the mire, 

And prayed that darkness might become my pall; 

The rabble rout roared round me like some quire 
Of filthy animals primordial; 

My heart seemed like a toad eternally 

Prisoned in stone, ugly and sad as he; 

Sweet sunlight seemed a dream, a mystic thing. 
And life some beldam's dotard gossiping. 

Then, Lady, 1 bethought me of thy sway. 

And hoped again, rose up this prayer to wing — 

Send me a maiden meet for love, I pray! 

Lady, I bear no high resounding lyre 
To hymn thy glory, and thy foes appal 

With thunderous splendour of my rhythmic ire; 
A little lute I lightly touch and small 

My skill thereon: yet, Lady, if it be 

I ever woke ear-winning melody, 

'Twas for thy praise I sought the throbbing string, 
Thy praise alone — for all my worshipping 

Is at thy shrine, thou knowest, day by day. 
Then shall it be in vain my plaint to sing? — 

Send me a maiden meet for love, I pray! 

Yea! why of all men should this sorrow dire 

Unto thy servant bitterly befall? 
For, Lady, thou dost know I ne'er did tire 

Of thy sweet sacraments and ritual; 
In morning meadows I have knelt to thee, 
In noontide woodlands hearkened hushedly 

Thy heart's warm beat in sacred slumbering. 

And in the spaces of the night heard ring 
Thy voice in answer to the spheral lay: 

Now 'neath thy throne my suppliant life I fling — 
Send me a maiden meet for love, I pray! 

I ask no maid for all men to admire. 

Mere body's beauty hath in me no thrall. 

And noble birth, and sumptuous attire. 

Are gauds I crave not — yet shall have withal. 



284 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

With a sweet difference, in my heart's own She, 

Whom words speak not but eyes know when they see. 
Beauty beyond all glass's mirroring. 
And dream and glory hers for garmenting; 

Her birth — O Lady, wilt thou say me nay? — 
Of thine own womb, of thine own nurturing — 

Send ilie a maiden meet for love, I pray! 



Sweet Queen who sittest at the heart of spring, 
My life is thine, barren or blossoming; 

'Tis thine to flush it gold or leave it grey: 
And so unto thy garment's hem I cling — 

Send me a maiden meet for love, I pray. 

Richard Le Galliefine 



CHANT ROYAL OF AUGUST 

Queen, thou art found in toiling — where the wheat 
Grows ruddy-ripe and golden in the ear, 

Where the scarlet poppies fall and faint with heat. 
Where no late lark is left to call or hear. 

He sang, and sings not, for the golden haze 

Of languorous August folds him in a maze. 
Fain to surcease of song; and he must bend 
To the Noon-Queen's high hesting; he must lend 

His myriad music to the murmurous bee. 

Sole singer he, who doth all songs transcend. 

The cool, white wind of healing from the sea. 

Like a drift-snow in summer, wide wings beat. 

Whiter than cups of lilies, near and near 
Come the strong ships of August, winging fleet — 

The wandering birds that all the North holds dear. 
O stormy, sharp sea-wind, that smites and slays, 
Blow soft and sighing on their white arrays. 

That they come safe before thee to the end, 



CHANTS ROYAL 285 

Through perilous places where no songs ascend, 
And shake from out the flowing hair of thee, 

O golden Queen, so thou thy hosts defend. 
The cool, white wind of healing from the sea. 

In the deep woodland thou hast place and seat. 

Soft eyes like flowers, sweet and shy with fear, 
Come laughing round thee; and thou dost entreat 

The wild-eyed water-kelpie from the mere. 
Till all thy court of dryads and of fays 
Cry fond farewell upon the summer days, 

That fade like flowers whom no bees attend; 

Full days, and nights of beauty; hither wend 
The weary loves that wander ceaselessly. 

Having dead hearts for comfort, and their friend 
The cool, white wind of healing from the sea. 

Thy two fair hands are filled with largesse meet. 
With purple grapes and radiant apples clear; 

With golden glowing sunflowers, good to greet 
As thou art, fair and changing: for the tear 

Wars with thy lovely laughter as it plays 

From thy deep eyes, and bright brows crowned with bays 
To thy most radiant mouth; wherein they blend 
In storm or sunshine as thy heart forefend; 

And in thy light hair lying royally 

Waits, till on field or flower thou shalt it spend, 

The cool, white wind of healing from the sea. 

Thou standest in the orchards with quick feet. 
When mellow apples from old boughs and sere 

Hang tremulous; that ripen ere the peat — 
A flying flame of purple on the year — 

Grows grey for burning in the heather ways, 

When children watch for windfalls and estrays; 
When the great winds are gathering to rend 
In hideous wrath and ruin none shall mend; 

But yet Queen August is not bond, but free. 

And blowing yet, though hitherward tempests trend, 

The cool, white wind of healing from the sea. 



286 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



L ENVOI 

Queen August, we in street and city penned, 
Where dreamless nights and dolorous days offend. 

In summer's aftermath, cry wearily, 
Be pitiful to hear us, and to send 

The cool, white wind of healing from the sea. 

EtM Talbot 



THE CHANT OF THE CHILDREN OF THE MIST 

(Chant Royal) 

I waited ^n a mountain's midmost side. 

The lifting of a cloud, and standing there. 

Keeping my soul in patience far and wide 
Beheld faint shadows wandering, felt the air 

Stirred as with voices which in passing by 

Still dulled its weary weight with many a sigh. 
No band of pilgrims or of soldiers they — 
These children of the mist — who took their way, 

Each one aloof, perplexed and pondering 

With steps untimed to music grave or gay; — 

This was a people that had lost its king. 

In happier days of old it was their pride 

To serve him on their knee and some were 'ware 
E'en of his voice or presence as they plied 

Their daily task, or ate their simple fare. 
Now in new glory shrouded, far and nigh 
He had withdrawn himself from ear and eye; 
Scorning such service as they knew to pay. 
His ministers were as the golden ray 

Shot from the sun when he would wake the 
spring, — 
Swift to perform and pliant to obey — 
This was a people that had lost its king. 



CHANTS ROYAL 287 

Single as beasts, or if allied, allied 

But as the wolf who leaves his dusky lair 

To hound for common need, which scarce supplied, 
He lone returns with his disputed share, — 

Even so sole, so scornful, or so shy. 

Each man of these pursued his way on high. 

Still high and higher, seeking through the grey 
Gloom of the mist, the lord of yesterday. 
Dim, serviceless, bereft and sorrowing 
Shadows continuing never in one stay; — 
This was a people that had lost its king. 

Then as the day wore on, and none descried 

The longed-for presence, as the way grew bare, 

As strength declined, and hope within them died, 
A sad new birth, — the fruit of their despair, — 

Stirred in their midst, and with a human cry 

Awoke a human love, and flushed a dry 

Sweet spring of tears, whose fertilising play 
Broke up the hard cold barriers of their clay. 

Till hands were stretched in help, or seen to cling 

In fealty that were only joined to pray; 

This was a people that had lost its king. 

So blent in heart and hand, so myriad-eyed, 
With gathering power and ever lessening care. 

The veiled beguilements of the way defied 

They cleave the cloud, and climb that mountain fair; 

Till lo! upon its crown at last they vie 

In songs of rapture as they hail the sky. 

And trace their lost one through the vast array 
Of tuneful suns, which keep not now at bay 

Their questing love, but help to waft and wing; 
And over all a voice which seems to say, 
This is a people that has found its king! 

ENVOY 

Lord of our lives! Thou scorned us that day 
When at thy feet a scattered host we lay. 



288 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Behold us ONE! One mighty heart we bring, 
Strong for thy tasks, and level to thy sway. 
This was the people that had lost its king! 

Emily Pfeiffer 



^ KING BOREAS 

(Chant Royal) 

I sit enthroned 'mid icy wastes afar, 

Beyond the level land of endless snow, 

For months I see the brilliant polar star 

Shine on a shore, the lonelier none may know. 

Supreme I rule in monarchy of might, — 

My realms are boundless as the realms of Night. 
Proud court I hold, and tremblingly obey 
My many minions from the isles of Day; 

And when my heralds sound aloud, behold 
My slaves appear with suppliant heads alway. 

I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold. 



1 am the god of all the winds that are! 

I blow where'er I list, — I come, I go. 
Athwart the sky upon my cloud-capped car 

I rein my steeds, swift-prancing to and fro. 
The dreary woodlands shudder in affright 
To hear my clarion on the mountain height. 

The sobbing sea doth moan in pain, and pray, 

"Is there no refuge from the storm-king's sway?" 
I am as aged as the earth is old, 

Yet strong am I although my locks are grey; 
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold. 



I loose my chains, and then with awful jar 
And presage of disaster and dire woe, 

Out rush the storms and sound the clash of war 
'Gainst all the earth, and shrill their bugles blow. 



CHANTS ROYAL 289 

I bid them haste; they bound in eager flight 

Toward far fair lands, where'er the sun's warm light 
Makes mirth and joyance; there, in rude afi"ray. 
They trample down, despoil, and crush and slay. 

They turn green meadows to a desert wold, 
And naught for rulers of the earth care they; — 

I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold. 

When in the sky, a lambent scimitar, 

In early eve Endymion's bride doth glow, 

When night is perfect, and no cloud doth mar 
The peace of nature, when the rivers' flow 

Is soft and musical, and when the sprite 

Whispers to lovers on each breeze bedight 
With fragrance, then 1 steal forth, as I may, 
And seize upon whate'er I will for prey. 

I see the billows high as hilltops rolled. 

And clutch and flaunt aloft the snowy spray! 

1 am great Boreas, King of wind and cold. 

I am in league with Death. When I unbar 
My triple-guarded doors, and there bestow 

Upon my frost-fiends freedom, bid them scar 
The brightest dales with summer blooms a-row, 

They breathe on every bower a deadly blight. 

And all is sere and withered in their sight. 
Unheeded now, Apollo's warming ray 
Wakes not the flower, for my chill breezes play 

Where once soft zephyrs swayed the marigold. 
And where his jargon piped the noisy jay, — 

I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold. 

ENVOY 

O Princes, hearken what my trumpets say! — 
"Man's life is naught, no mortal lives for aye; 

His might hath empire only of the mold," 
Boast not yourselves, ye fragile forms of clay! 

1 am great Boreas, King of wind and cold. 

Clinton Scollard 



290 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

THE NEW EPIPHANY 

(Chant Royal) 

Awake, awake, nay, slumber not, nor sleep! 

For-th from the dreamland and black dome of night, 
From chaos and thick darkness, from the deep 

Of formless being, comes a gracious light. 
Gilding the crystal seas, and casting round 
A golden glory on the enchanted ground; — 

Awake, O souls of harmony, and ye 

That greet the dayspring with your jubilee 
Of lute and harp! Awake, awake, and bring 

Your well-tuned cymbals, and go forth with glee. 
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king. 

Far o'er the hills have not the watchful sheep 

Espied their shepherd, and with eager flight 
Gone forth to meet him on the craggy steep; 

Hasting the while his summoning notes invite 
Where riper grasses and green herbs abound: — 
But ye! your shepherd calls, thrice happy sound! 

He comes, he comes, your shepherd king, 'tis he! 

Oh, quit these close-cropped meads, and gladly flee 
To him who makes once more new growths upspring; 

Oh, quit your ancient glebes, — oh, joyfully 
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king. 

Too long ye till exhausted lands and reap 

Thin crops that ne'er your weary toil requite: 

Too long your laggard oxen labouring creep 
Up the wide furrows, and full idly smite 

The weed-encircled ridge, the rocky mound: 

Will ye not quit these fields now barren found? 
Ah! ye are old, yet not too old to be 
Brave travellers o'er bald custom's boundary; — 

Then each, let each his robe around him fling, 
And with his little one, his child, set free, 

Go forth, and welcome the eternal king. 



CHANTS ROYAL 291 

Sec, on the strand, watching the waves that sweep 

Their creamy ripples up the sandy bight, 
Your child waits, leaping as the wavelets leap, 

The faery infant of the infinite! 
Ah! happy child, with what new wonders crowned 
He'll turn to thee to fathom and expound; 

Asking, enquiring, looking unto thee 

To solve the universe, its destiny; — 
And still unto thy vestment's hem will cling. 

Asking, enquiring, — whispering, may not we 
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king. 

Oh, linger not, no longer vainly weep 

O'er vanished hopes, but with new strength unite; 

Oh, linger not! But let your glad eyes keep 
Watch on this guiding star that beams so bright; 

Around your brows be this phylacter bound, — 

Let Truth be king and, let his -praise resound \ 
Oh, linger not! Let earth, and sky, and sea. 
To sound his praises let all hearts agree; 

Still loud, and louder, let your pasans ring, 
Go forth, go forth, in glad exultancy 

Go forth, and welcome the eternal king. 

ENVOY 

Thou art the king, O Truth! we bend the knee 
To thee; we own thy wondrous sovranty; 

And still thy praises in our songs we'll sing. 
Bidding all people with blithe minstrelsy 

Go forth, and welcome the eternal king. 

Samuel Waddington 



CHANT-ROYAL OF THE TRUE ROMANCE 

Romance is dead, say some, and so, to-day, 
Honour and Chivalry are faint and cold; 

And now, Adventure has no modern way 
To stir the blood, as in the days of old. 



292 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

They mourn the times of Gallantry as done, 
Knighthood has seen the setting of its sun, 
And fairy, nymph and genie, grown too shy. 
No more, in these new lands, hold revel high; 

There lives no mystery, now, and they cry woe 
To this old world, so twisted and awry! 

Romance is dead, say some; but I say No! 

Haroun-al-Raschid, so the sceptics say, 

Would seek in vain for sights his book has told — 
Crusoe could find no island far away 

Enough, his life with glamour to enfold — 
Ulysses now might rove, nor fear to run 
The risks of perils Homer's fable spun — 
And Hiawatha's white canoe would try 
In vain to find some beach, whence to descry 

The hunting-grounds where once he bent his bow. 
Gone are the Halcyon Days, they sadly sigh ; 

Romance is dead, say some; but I say No! 

Not while the ancient sea casts up its spray 

Upon the laughing beach, and I behold 
The myriad dancing ripples of the bay 

Speed out to meet the sunset's robe of gold; 
Not till the last ship's voyage has begun; 
Not till the storm god's lightnings cease to stun! 
Not till the mountains lift no more to sky 
Their secret fastnesses, and forests vie 

No more with winds and mists, with sun and snow, 
And rustling fields no more to streams reply! 

Romance is dead, say some; but I say No! 

Not while the Night maintains her mystic sway. 
And conjures, in the haunted wood and wold. 

Her eerie shadows, fanciful and fey. 

With priests of Darkness, pale and sombre-stoled ; 

Not while upon the Sea of Dreams are won 

Strange ventures, escapades, and frolic fun; 

Where tricksy phantoms, whimsically sly, 



CHANTS ROYAL 293 

Order your deeds, you know not how nor why; 

Where Reason, Wit, and Conscience drunken go. ■ 
Have you e'er dreamed, and still can question? Fie! 

Romance is dead, say some; but I say No! 

Not while Youth lives and Springtime bids be gay! 

Not while love blooms, and lovers dare be bold! 
Not while a poet sings his roundelay. 

Or men by maiden's kisses are cajoled! 
You have not seen her, or you, too, would shun 
The thought that in this world Romance there's none; 
For oh, my Love has power to beautify 
My whole life long, and all its charm supply; 

My bliss, my youth, my dreams, to her 1 owe! 
And so, ye scornful cynics, I deny; 

Romance is dead, say some; but I say No! 



God, keep my youth and love alive, that I 
May wonder at this world until 1 die! 

Let sea and mountain speak to me, that so, 
Waking or sleeping, I may fight the lie; 

Romance is dead, say some; but I say No! 

Gelett Burgess 



CHANT-ROYAL OF CALIFORNIA 

Onward the Nation marches, and in sight 

Of this far Western sea, whose ripples glow 
Wide towards the sunset, with its staff does smite 

The rock of Hope, that golden streams may flow. 
This is our Promised Land, beyond compare 
The most prolific Eden, rich and fair! 
Here may we lay our hearth-stones, and with glee 
Of new possession, and with song, may we 

Set out the grape and fig, and seed-corn strew. 
Ah, gallant husbandmen, what soil have ye! 

This vintage shall the old world's youth renew! 



294 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

O maiden West! What need to re-indite 

Her beauties and her blessings — all men know! 
The day rings with her laughter of delight, 

All of earth's good she has, without the woe. 
The joy of youth is hers — a future rare 
Is hers to win, to foster and to share; 
Strong'^ reckless, frank and jubilant is she, 
Holding with thoughtless hand her fortune's key; 

Yet, underneath her sun and heavens blue 
The vine shall yield, and it shall come to be 

This vintage shall the old world's youth renew! 

Bring no old myths to exercise their might 

O'er her grey mountains' grim defending row; 
Let the past heroes linger in the night. 

Nor haunt her meadows, where wild flowers blow! 
False gods are all behind; ah, leave them there — 
Let the new race dare breathe her fresher air! 
Tribe after tribe has lived, and left her free; 
Aztec and Indian hailed Yosemite, 

Shasta and Tamalpais — the Spaniard, too, 
Passed with the Russ; but 'twas her fate's decree 

This vintage shall the old world's youth renew! 

Then may we garner nothing but the Right, 

The seeds of Error may we never sow! 
The soil is virgin and the sunshine bright. 

The glad warm rains shall teach the bud to grow. 
Strike deep the furrow straight with forthright care 
And gather all the lavish Seasons bear; 
Then shall a Nation rise, of such degree 
As never Argonaut dared hope to see! 

A thousand harvests shall not half subdue 
The power of this land's abundant fee; 

This vintage shall the old world's youth renew! 

High as her hills shall be her honour's height, 

Deep as her gorges loyalty shall go; 
Broad as her plains, or as her eagle's flight 

Shall be the Freedom she shall then bestow. 



CHANTS ROYAL 295 

This is our field; so gird ye, and be yare 
To conquer and to hold, to brave and dare 
The perils of her wealth — nor bow the knee 
To the dead laws, nor from live truths to flee! 

Thus, only, must we fare the long years through. 
If the land fatten — and be this our plea: 

This vintage shall the old world's youth renew! 

ENVOY 

O Pioneer, what task is set for thee! 

Not thine to taste the fruit, but plant the tree; 

The years of strife are thine; if thou art true. 
Thy sons' sons shall enjoy the Jubilee; 

This vintage shall the old world's youth renew! 

Gelett Burgess 



BALLADE OF FAREWELL * 

New roads to fare, new toils to overthrow. 

New fields, made rich with fern and floweret. 

And beckoning' seas where brave winds merrily blow 
Over the sun-bright waves of dawn — and yet, 
Never cne sun rose but another set. . . . 

Wherefore, beseech you, count me not as they 

Who shun the venture and avoid the fray, 

Though I should pause within the empty hall. 

By the old hearth bow down to dream and pray, 
And bid at last a long farewell to all. 

Dim elms deepen the summer gloom below. 
Tangling the drowsy breeze in a soft net 

Of slowly waving leaves; an amber glow 
Streams out of many windows, over wet 
Green grass, gray tower, and vine-hung parapet; 

And careless gusts of song start up, and stray 

* Copyright 1915 by Brian Hooker. 



296 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Among the shadows; the city's distant bray 
Softens; and happy voices clash and call 

One to another, as I turn away, 

And bid at last a long farewell to all. 



Youth,. and high hearts welcoming friend and foe, 
Careless of fear or failure; the clear jet 

And rainbow-spray of joyance; and the flow 
Of easy slumber to a morning met 
Blithely, fresh-eyed; madrigal, canzonet, 

Drink with glad boys and dance with maidens gay. 

Scorn of such laws as weaker souls obey — 

Carouse, adventure, dalliance, tryst, and brawl — 

Must we disown the sweetness of their sway. 
And bid at last a long farewell to all? 



These things are ebbing from us: and although 
It is more wise to frolic than to fret, 

Good to strew garlands on the grave of woe, 
Good to drink deep of laughter, and forget 
Weariness, and chill twilights, and the debt 

Inexorable that even we must pay 

Who in the House of Life rejoice to stay — 
Nevertheless, we find the banquets pall. 

See the leaves wither, and the lights turn gray. 
And bid at last a long farewell to all. 



Wherefore, with half my days foregone, I go 
Now to begin true labour. I regret 

Only the song unborn, the unbent bow 

Whose quarry leaps unscathed. Nor dare I let 
My heart shrink from the turmoil and the sweatj 

For even already have I seen decay 

The glamour and dew-freshness of the May 
And felt a weary body faint and fall, 

Remembering how I must fear delay, 
And bid at last a long farewell to all. 



CHANTS ROYAL 297 



ENVOI 



Princes of Mirth! Let no power disarray 
The pageants and fair trappings of our play, 

Until we turn our faces to the wall, 
Smile down the glimmering slopes of yesterday, 

And bid at last a long farewell to all. 

Brian Hooker 



RONDELS 



RONDEL 

CharUi D'OrUans, 1S91-1465 

To his Mistress, to succour his heart that is beleaguered 
by jealousy. 

Strengthen, my Love, this castle of my heart. 
And with some store of pleasure give me aid, 

For Jealousy, with all them of his part. 

Strong siege about the weary tower has laid. 
Nay, if to break his bands thou art afraid, 

Too weak to make his cruel force depart. 

Strengthen at least this castle of my heart, 
And with some store of pleasure give me aid. 

Nay, let not Jealousy, for all his art 
Be master, and the tower in ruin laid. 
That still, ah Love! thy gracious rule obeyed. 

Advance, and give me succour of thy part; 

Strengthen, my Love, this castle of my heart. 

Andrew Lang 

RONDEL 

(After Charles d' Orleans) 

The world has cast her habiting 
Of wind, of frost, of cold grey rain; 
In sunny robes of braver grain 
She dons the broidery of Spring 
And every tiny living thing 
In his own way declares amain: 
"The world has cast her habiting 
Of wind, of frost, of cold grey rain." 
301 



302 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

And streams and brooks the tidings bring 
Wearing their liveries again 
Of gold and silver; Winter slain, 
April may laugh aloud, and sing: 
"The world has cast her habiting 
Of wind, of frost, of cold grey rain." 
"V Christofher M or ley 



FROM THEODORE DE BANVILLE 



NIGHT 

We bless the coming of the Night, 

Whose cool sweet kiss has set us free, 

Life's clamour and anxiety 
Her mantle covers out of sight. 
All eating cares have taken flight, 

The scented air is wine to me; 
We bless the coming of the Night, 

Whose cool sweet kiss has set us free. 
Rest now, O reader, worn and white, 

Driven by some divinity, 

Aloft, like sparkling hoar frost see, 
A starry ocean throb in light. 
We bless the coming of the Night. 



THE MOON 

The moon, with all her tricksy ways, 
Is like a careless young coquette, 
Who smiles, and then her eyes are wet, 

And flies or follows or delays. 

By night, along the sand-hills' maze, 
She leads and mocks you till you fret. 

The moon with all her tricksy ways. 
Is like a careless young coquette. 



RONDELS 303 

As oft she veils herself in haze, 

A cloak before her splendour set; 

She is a silly charming pet, 
We needs must give her love and praise. 
The moon with all her tricksy ways. 

Arthur Reed Rofes 



UPON THE STAIR I SEE MY LADY STAND 
(Rondel) 

Upon the stair I see my lady stand, 

Her hair is like the gleaming gold of dawn, 
And, like the laughing sunbeam on the lawn. 

The radiant smile by which her lips are spanned. 

A chiselled marvel seems her slender hand 
What time she waves it ere my steps are gone; 

Upon the stair I see my lady stand, 

Her hair is like the gleaming gold of dawn. 

Through the green covert that the breeze has fanned 
She fleets as graceful as the flexile fawn ; 
She is the star to which my soul is drawn 

When shadows drive the daylight from the land. 

Upon the stair I see my lady stand. 

Her hair is like the gleaming gold of dawn. 

Clinton Scollard 



READY FOR THE RIDE— 1795 
(Rondel) 

Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride, 
As in the old days when he rode with her, 

With joy of Love that has fond Hope to bride, 
One year ago had made her pulses stir. 



304 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Now shall no wish with any day recur 
(For Love and Death part year and year full wide), 
Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride, 

As in the old days when he rode with her. 

No ghost there lingers of the smile that died 

On t"he sweet pale lip where his kisses were — 
Yet still she turns her delicate head aside, 

If she may hear him come, with jingling spur — 
. Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride, 
As in the old days when he rode with her. 

H. C. Bunner 



RONDEL 

Kiss me, sweetheart, the Spring is here, 
And Love is lord of you and me! 
The bluebells beckon each passing bee; 

The wild wood laughs to the flov/ered year; 

There is no bird in brake or brere 
But to his little mate sings he, 

"Kiss me, sweetheart, the Spring is here. 

And Love is lord of you and me." 

The blue sky laughs out sweet and clear; 
The missel-thrush upon the tree 
Pipes for sheer gladness loud and free; 
And I go singing to my dear, 
"Kiss me, sweetheart, the Spring is here. 
And Love is lord of you and me!" 

John Payne 



RONDELS 305 



"AWAKE, AWAKE!"* 

Awake, awake, O gracious heart. 

There's some one knocking at the door! 

The chilling breezes make him smart; 
His little feet are tired and sore. 

Arise, and welcome him before 

Adown his cheeks the big tears start: 
Awake, awake, O gracious heart, 

There's some one knocking at the door! 

'Tis Cupid come with loving art 
To honor, worship, and implore; 

And lest, unwelcomed, he depart 
With all his wise, mysterious lore, 

Awake, awake, O gracious heart. 

There's some one knocking at the door! 

Frank Demfster Sherman 



RONDEL 

This book of hours Love wrought 
With burnished letters gold; 

Each page with art and thought, 
And colours manifold. 

His calendar he taught 

To youths and virgins cold; 

This book of hours Love wrought 
With burnished letters gold. 

This priceless book is bought 
With sighs and tears untold, 



* Used by permission of and by arrangement with Houghton 
Vlifflin Company. 



306 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Of votaries who sought 
His countenance of old — 

This book of hours Love wrought 
With burnished letters gold. 

Walter Crane 



RONDEL 



When time upon the wing 
A swallow heedless flies, 

Love-birds forget to sing 
Beneath the lucent skies. 

For now belated spring 
With her last blossom hies. 

When time upon the wing 
A swallow heedless flies. 

What summer hope shall bring 
To wistful dreaming eyes? 

What fateful forecast fling 
Before life's last surprise, 

When time upon the wing 
A swallow heedless flies.'' 

Walter Crane 



RONDEL 

I love you dearly, O my sweet! 
Although you pass me lightly by, 
Although you weave my life awry, 

And tread my heart beneath your feet. 

I tremble at your touch ; I sigh 
To see you passing down the street; 
I love you dearly, O my sweet! 

Although you pass me lightly by. 



RONDELS 307 

You say in scorn that love's a cheat, 

Passion a blunder, youth a lie. 
I know not. Only when we meet 

I long to kiss your hand and cry, 
"I love you dearly, O my sweet, 

Although you pass me lightly by." 

Justm Huntley McCarthy 

"VITAS HINNULEO" 

You shun me, Chloe, wild and shy 

As some stray fawn that seeks its mother 

Through trackless woods. If spring-winds sigh, 
It vainly strives its fears to smother; — 

Its trembling knees assail each other 

When lizards stir the bramble dry; — 

You shun me, Chloe, wild and shy 
As some stray fawn that seeks its mother. 

And yet no Libyan lion I, — 

No ravening thing to rend another; 
Lay by your tears, your tremors by — 

A Husband's better than a brother; 
Nor shun me, Chloe, wild and shy 

As some stray fawn that seeks its mother. 

Austin Dobson 



THE WANDERER 

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling, — 
The old, old Love that we knew of yore! 
We see him stand by the open door. 

With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling. 

He makes as though in our arms repelling. 
He fain would lie as he lay before; — 

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling, — 
The old, old Love that we knew of yore! 



308 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Ah, who shall help us from over-spelling 
That sweet, forgotten, forbidden lore! 
E'en as we doubt in our heart once more, 

With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling. 

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling. 

Austin Dobson 

""V 



TWILIGHT 

Someone has lit the lamp, and hung 
The house with curtains of cool blue, 
Someone (I cannot tell you who) 
Has put bright candles all among 
Our empty rooms. Since we are young 
For keeping house, and only two, 
Someone has lit the lamp, and hung 
The house with curtains of cool blue. 

Our lamp, the moon so deftly swung 
Aloft; the stars our candles new; 
Our housekeeper? I have no clue 
I only know what I have sung — 
Someone has lit the lamp, and hung 
The house with curtains of cool blue. 

Chr'isto-pher Morley 



RONDEL OF PERFECT FRIENDSHIP 

Friend of my soul, forever true, 
What do we care for. flying years. 
Unburdened all by doubts or fears. 

Trusting what naught can e'er subdue? 

Fate leads! Her path is out of view; 

Nor time nor distance interferes! 
Friend of my soul, forever true. 

What do we care for flying years? 



RONDELS 309 

For, planted when the world was new, 
In other lives, in other spheres, 
Our love to-day a bud appears — 

Not yet the blossom's perfect hue, 

Friend of my soul, forever true! 

Gelett Burgess 

SINCE I AM SWORN TO LIVE MY LIFE* 

Since I am sworn to live my life 
And not to keep an easy heart, 
Some men may sit and drink apart, 
I bear a banner in the strife. 

Some can take quiet thought to wife, 
I am all day at tierce and carte^ 
Since I am sworn to live my life 
And not to keep an easy heart. 

I follow gaily to the fife. 
Leave Wisdom bowed above a chart, 
And Prudence brawling in the mart, 
And dare Misfortune to the knife, 
Since I am sworn to live my life. 

Robert Louis Stevenson 

WE'LL WALK THE WOODS NO MORE f 

Nous N'Irons Plus au Bois 

We'll walk the woods no more. 
But stay beside the fire, 
To weep for old desire 
And things that are no more. 

The woods are spoiled and hoar, 
The ways are full of mire; 
We'll walk the woods no more, 
But stay beside the fire. 

* From The Life of Robert Louis Stevenson, by Graham 
Jalfour. Copyright 1901 by Charles Scribner's Sons, Pub- 
ishers. 

t From Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson, by Sidney Calvin, 
i^opyright 1911 by Charles Scribner's Sons, Publishers. 



310 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

We loved, in days of yore, 
Love, laughter, and the lyre. 
Ah God, but death is dire, 
And death is at the door — 
We'll walk the woods no more. 

Robert Louis Stevenson 



FAR HAVE YOU COME, MY LADY, FROM 
THE TOWN* 

Far have you come, my lady, from the town, 
And far from all your sorrows, if you please. 
To smell the good sea-winds and hear the seas, 
And in green meadows lay your body down. 

To find your pale face grow from pale to brown, 
Your sad eyes growing brighter by degrees; 
Far have you come, my lady, from the town, 
And far from all your sorrows, if you please. 

Here in this seaboard land of old renown, 
In meadow grass go wading to the knees; 
Bathe your whole soul a while in simple ease; 
There is no sorrow but the sea can drown; 
Far have you come, my lady, from the town. 

Robert Louis Stevenson 

VARIATIONS 
I 

"Alons au bois le may cueillir." — Charles D'Orleans. 

We'll to the woods and gather may 
Fresh from the footprints of the rain; 
We'll to the woods, at every vein 

To drink the spirit of the day. 

* From Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson, by Sidney Colvin. 
Copyright 1911 by Charles Scribner's Sons, Publishers. 



RONDELS 311 

The winds of spring are out at play, 

The needs of spring in heart and brain. 
We'll to the woods and gather may 

Fresh from the footprints of the rain. 
The world's too near her end, you say? — 

Hark to the blackbird's mad refrain! 

It waits for her, the vast Inane? — 
Then, girls, to help her on the way 
We'll to the woods and gather may. 

W. E. Henley 



"Ainsi qu' aux fleurs la vieillesse, 
Fera ternir votre beaute." — RoNSARD. 

And lightly, like the flowers. 

Your beauties Age will dim, 

Who makes the song a hymn, 
And Lurns the sweets to sours! 

Alas! the chubby Hours 

Grow lank and grey and grim, 
And lightly, like the flowers. 

Your beauties Age will dim. 

Still rosy are the bowers. 

The walks yet green and trim. 

Among them let your whim 
Pass sweetly, like the showers. 
And lightly, like the flowers. 

W. E. Henley 

ROUNDELS OF THE YEAR* 

/ caught the changes of the year 
In soft and fragile nets of song. 
For you to whom my days belong. 

* Used by permission of, and by arrangement with, Houghton 
lifflin Company. 



312 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

For you to whom each day is dear 
Of all the high frocessional throng, 
I caught the changes of the year 
In soft and fragile nets of song. 

And here some sound of beauty, here 
'■"v Some note of ancient, ageless wrong 

Re-shafing as my lifs were strong 
I caught the changes of the year 
In soft and fragile nets of song. 
For you to whom my days belong. 



The spring is passing through the land 
In web of ghostly green arrayed, 
And blood is warm in man and maid. 

The arches of desire have spanned 
The barren ways, the debt is paid. 
The spring is passing through the land 
In web of ghostly green arrayed. 

Sweet scents along the winds are fanned 
From shadowy wood and secret glade 
Where beauty blossoms unafraid. 

The spring is passing through the land 
In web of ghostly green arrayed, 
And blood is warm in man and maid. 



Proud insolent June with burning lips 
Holds riot now from sea to sea, 
And shod in sovran gold is she. 

To the full flood of reaping slips 
The seeding-time by God's decree, 
Proud insolent June with burning lips 
Holds riot now from sea to sea. 



RONDELS 313 

And all the goodly fellowships 

Of bird and bloom and beast and tree 

Are gallant of her company — 

Proud insolent June with burning lips 

Holds riot now from sea to sea, 

And shod in sovran gold is she. 



The loaded sheaves are harvested, 
The sheep are in the stubbled fold. 
The tale of labour crowned is told. 

The wizard of the year has spread 
A glory over wood and wold. 

The loaded sheaves are harvested, 
The sheep are in the stubbled fold. 

The yellow apples and the red 
Bear down the boughs, the hazels hold 
No more their fruit in cups of gold. 
The loaded sheaves are harvested. 
The sheep are in the stubbled fold, 
The tale of labour crowned is told. 



The year is lapsing into time 
Along a deep and songless gloom, 
Unchapleted of leaf or bloom. 

And mute between the dusk and prime 
The diligent earth re-sets her loom, — 
The year is lapsing into time 
Along a deep and songless gloom. 

While o'er the snows the seasons chime 
Their golden hopes to re-illume 
The brief eclipse about the tomb. 
The year is lapsing into time 
Along a deep and songless gloom, 
Unchapleted of leaf or bloom. 



314 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Not wise as cutmmg scholars are, 
With curious words ufon your tongue. 
Are you for whom my song is sung. 

But you are wise of cloud and star. 
And winds and boughs all blossom-hung. 
Not wise as cunning scholars are. 
With curious words ufon your tongue. 



Surely, clear child of earth, some far 
Dim Dryad-hau7ited groves among. 
Your lifs to lip of knowledge clung — 
Not wise as cunning scholars are, 
With curious words ufon your tongue. 
Are you for whom my song is sung. 

John Drinkwater 



RONDELS 
I 

The lilacs are in bloom, 
All is that ever was, 
And Cupids peep and pass 

Through the curtains of the room. 



Season of light perfume. 
Hide all beneath thy grass. 

The lilacs are in bloom. 
All is that ever was. 



Dead hopes new shapes assume; 
Town belle and country lass 
Forget the word "Alas," 

For over every tomb 

The lilacs are in bloom. 



RONDELS 315 



Summer has seen decay 
Of roses white and red, 
And Love with wings outspread 

Speeds after yesterday. 

Blue skies have changed to grey, 
And joy has sorrow wed: 

Summer has seen decay 
Of roses white and red. 

May's flowers outlast not May; 

And when the hour has fled, 

Around the roses dead 
The mournful echoes say — 
Summer has seen decay. 

George Moore 



O HONEY OF HYMETTUS HILL* 

Rondel 
(Dobson's Variation) 

O honey of Hymettus Hill, 

Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste, 

Wert here for the soft amorous bill 
Of Aphrodite's courser placed? 

Thy musky scent what virginal chaste 
Blossom was ravished to distill, 
O honey of Hymettus Hill, 

Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste? 

* From T/ie Poe?ns of H. C. Bunner. Copyright, 1917, by 
Charles Scribner's Sons. 



316 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

What upturned calyx drank its fill 

When ran the draught divine to waste, 

That her white hands were doomed to spill — 
Sweet Hebe, fallen and disgraced — 

O honey of Hymettus Hill, 

Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste? 
•-. Henry Cuyler Bunner 



RONDEL FOR SEPTEMBER 

You thought it was a falling leaf we heard: 
1 knew it was the Summer's gypsy feet, 
A sound so reticent it scarcely stirred 
The ear, so still a message to repeat, — 
"I go, and lo, I make my going sweet." 
What wonder you should miss so soft a word? 
You thought it was a falling leaf we heard: 
I knew it was the Summer's gypsy feet. 

With slender torches for her service meet 
The golden-rod is coming; softer slurred 
Midsummer noises take a note replete 
With hint of change; who told the mocking-bird? 
r knew it was the Summer's gypsy feet — 
You thought it was a falling leaf we heard. 

Karle Wilson Baker 



"BEFORE THE DAWN" 

Before the dawn begins to glow, 

A ghostly company I keep; 

Across the silent room they creep. 
The buried forms of friend and foe. 
Amid the throng that come and go. 

There are two eyes that make me weep; 
Before the dawn begins to glow, 

A ghostly company I keep. 



RONDELS 317 

Two dear dead eyes. I love them so! 

They shine like starlight on the deep; 

And often when 1 am asleep 
They stoop and kiss me, bending low, 

Before the dawn begins to glow. 

Samuel Minturn Peck 



TWO RONDELS 



When on the mid sea of the night, 

I waken at thy call, O Lord. 

The first that troop my bark aboard 
Are darksome imps that hate the light, 
Whose tongues are arrows, eyes a blight — 

Of wraths and cares a pirate horde — 
Though on the mid sea of the night 

It was thy call that waked me, Lord. 

Then I must to my arms and fight — 

Catch up my shield and two-edged sword, 
The words of him who is thy word; 
Nor cease till they are put to flight: — 
Then in the mid sea of the night 
I turn and listen for thee. Lord. 



There comes no voice from thee, O Lord, 

Across the mid sea of the night! 

I lift my voice and cry with might: 
If thou keep silent, soon a horde 
Of imps again will swarm aboard. 

And I shall be in sorry plight 
If no voice come from thee, O Lord, 

Across the mid sea of the night. 



318 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

There comes no voice; I hear no word! 
But in my soul dawns something bright: — 
There is no sea, no foe to fight! 
Thy heart and mine beat one accord: 
I need no voice from thee, O Lord, 
Across the mid sea of the night. 
"V George Macdonald 

RONDEL 

(After Anyte of Tegea.) 

Underneath this tablet rest. 
Grasshopper by autumn slain, 
Since thine airy summer nest 
Shivers under storm and rain. 

Freely let it be confessed 
Death and slumber bring thee gain; 
Spared from winter's fret and pain, 
Underneath this tablet rest. 

Myro found thee on the plain, 
Bore thee in her lawny breast. 
Reared this . .arble tomb amain 
To receive so small a guest! 
Underneath this tablet rest. 
Grasshopper by autumn slain. 

Edmund Gosse 



EARTH LOVE 

If there should be a sound of song 
Among the leaves when I am dead, 
God grant I still may hear it sped. 
And may I never pass along 
Unmoved of that sweet goodlihead, 
// tkere should be a sound of wng 
Among the leaves when I am dead. 



RONDELS 319 

And may I never know the wrong 

Of cancelled memory of shed 

Soft petals of the roses red — 

// there should be a sound of song 
Among the leaves when I am dead, 
God grant I still m,ay hear it s-ped. 

John Drinktvater 



RONDEL 

The ways of Death are soothing and serene, 

And all the words of Death are grave and sweet. 
From camp and church, the fireside and the street, 

She signs to come, and strife and song have been. 

A summer night descending, cool and green 

And dark, on daytime's dust and stress and heat, 

The ways of Death are soothing and serene. 

And all the words of Death are grave and sweet. 

O glad and sorrowful, with triumphant mien 
And hopeful faces look upon and greet 
This last of all your lovers, and to meet 

Her kiss, the Comforter's, your spirit lean. . . . 

The waj-s of Death are soothing and serene. 

W. E. Henley 



v 



RONDEAUS 



V 



THE RONDEAU 

Your rondeau's tale must still be light — 

No bugle-call to life's stern fight! 
Rather a smiling interlude 
Memorial to some transient mood 

Of idle love and gala-night. 

Its manner is the merest sleight 
O' hand; yet therein dwells its might, 
For if the heavier touch intrude 
Your rondeau's stale. 

Fragrant and fragile, fleet and bright, 
And wing'd with whim, it gleams in flight 
Like April blossoms wind-pursued 
Down aisles of tangled underwood; — 
Nor be too serious when you write 
Your rondeau's tale. 

Do7i Marquis 

FANCIES IN FILIGREE 

— Strambotti of Alessandro de Medici. 



"Guarda negli occhi la nostra regina" 

My Lady's Eyes Remembrance bring 
Of lyttel Waves whose Wavering 
Beneathe ye roving Summer Breeze 
Makes scintillant hushed Summer Seas 
Whenas ye Sun is vanishing. 
323 



324 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

They gladden me, as when in Spring 
We sing & knowe not why we sing. 
In sooth, there be noe Eyes like these 
My Lady's Eyes. 

Whenas their Glance is threatening 
They frighten Cupid, & that King 
From Florimel a-quaking flees j 
But when they soften, on hys Knees 
Love falls before them worshipping 
My Lady's Eyes. 

"Rime d'amore usar dolci e leggiadre" 

Ye little Rhyme I swore last Night 
To lay before ye Eyes so bright 
I have long loved — & loved too well! — 
So now ye Muses to compell, 
& shapely Phrases to indite. 

Which shall it be?— Ye Villanelle, 
Ode, Triolet, Rondeau, Rondel, 
Ballade, or Sonnet? — Each is hight 
Ye littel Rhyme. 

Yet none will aide my hapless Plight: 
All little Rhymes are short & slight, 
& of ye Charmes of Florimel 
An Epick's Length alone can tell, — 
So that of her I may not write 
Ye lyttel Rhyme. 

James Branch Cabell 



RONDEAUS 325 

AFTER WATTEAU 
(To F. W.) 

''Embarquons-nous!" I seem to go 

Against my will. 'Neath alleys low 
I bend, and hear across the air — 
Across the stream — faint music rare, — 

Whose '■'■cornemuse^'' whose ^^chalumeau"? 

Hark! was not that a laugh I know? 
Who was it, hurrying, turned to show 
The galley swinging by the stair? — 
'' Embarquons-nous !" 

The silk sail flaps, light breezes blow; 
Frail laces flutter, satins flow; 

You, with the love-knot in your hair, 
"Allans, embarquons four Cy there" ; 
You will not? Press her, then, Pierrot, — 
"Embarquons-nous!" 

Austin Dobson 



A GREETING 
(To W. C.) 

But once or twice we met, touched hands. 

But to-day between us both expands 
A waste of tumbling waters wide, — 
A waste by me as yet untried. 

Vague with the doubt of unknown lands. 

Time like a despot speeds his sands: 
A year he blots, a day he brands; 

We walked, we talked by Thamis' side 
But once or twice. 



326 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

What makes a friend? What filmy strands 

Are these that turn to iron bands? 
What knot is this so firmly tied 
That naught but Fate can now divide? — 

Ah, these are things one understands 
But once or twice! 

'"•V Austin Dobson 

"WHEN BURBADGE PLAYED" 

(To L. B.) 

When Burbadge played, the stage was bare 
Of fount and temple, tower and stair; 

Two backswords eked a battle out; 

Two supers made a rabble rout; 
The Throne of Denmark was a chair! 

And yet, no less, the audience there 
Thrilled through all changes of Despair, 
Hope, Anger, Fear, Delight, and Doubt 
When Burbadge played! 

This is the Actor's gift; to share 
All moods, all passions, nor to care 
One whit for scene, so he without 
Can lead men's minds the roundabout, 
Stirred as of old those hearers were 

When Burbadge played! 

Austin Dobson 

TO DAFFODILS 

(To A. J. M.) 

O yellow flowers that Herrick sung! 

O yellow flowers that danced and swung 
In Wordsworth's verse, and now to me, 
Unworthy, from this "pleasant lea," 

Laugh back, unchanged and ever young; — 



RONDEAUS 327 

Ah, what a text to us o'erstrung, 
O'erwrought, o'erreaching, hoarse of lung, 
You teach by that immortal glee, 
O yellow flowers! 

We, by the Age's oestrus stung. 
Still hunt the New with eager tongue. 
Vexed ever with the Old, but ye. 
What ye have been ye still shall be, 
When we are dust the dust among, 
O yellow flowers! 

Austin Dobson 



"O FONS BANDUSI^" 

O babbling Spring, than glass more clear, 
Worthy of wreath and cup sincere. 
To-morrow shall a kid be thine 
With swelled and sprouting brows for sign,- 
Sure sign! — of loves and battles near. 

Child of the race that butt and rear! 
Not less, alas! his life-blood dear 

Must tinge thy cold wave crystalline, 
O babbling Spring! 

Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer 
With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer, — 
The wandering flock. This verse of mine 
Will rank thee one with founts divine; 
Men shall thy rock and tree revere, 
O babbling Spring! 

Austin Dobson 



328 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

"WITH PIPE AND FLUTE" 

(To E. G.) 

With pipe and flute the rustic Pan 
Of old made music sweet for manj 

And wonder hushed the warbling bird, 
And closer drew the calm-eyed herd, — 
The rolling river slowlier ran. 

Ah! would, — ah! would, a little span, 
Some air of Arcady could fan 

This age of ours, too seldom stirred 
With pipe and flute! 

But now for gold we plot and plan; 
And from Beersheba unto Dan, 
Apollo's self might pass unheard, 
Or find the night-jar's note preferred; — 
Not so it fared, when time began, 
With pipe and flute! 

Austin Dobson 

"FAREWELL, RENOWN!" 

Farewell, Renown! Too fleeting flower, 
That grows a year to last an hour; — 
Prize of the race's dust and heat, 
Too often trodden under feet, — 
Why should I court your "barren dower"? 

Nay; — had I Dryden's angry power, — 
The thews of Ben, — the wind of Gower, — 
Not less my voice should still repeat 
"Farewell, Renown!" 

Farewell! — Because the Muses' bower 
Is filled with rival brows that lower; — 
Because, howe'er his pipe be sweet, 
The Bard, that "pays," must please the street;- 



RONDEAUS 329 

But most . . . because the grapes are sour, — 
Farewell, Renown! 

Austin Dob son 

"ON LONDON STONES" 

On London stones I sometimes sigh 

For wider green and bluer sky; — 

Too oft the trembling note is drowned 
In this huge city's varied sound; — 

"Pure song is country-born" — I cry. 

Then comes the spring, — the months go by, 
The last stray swallows seaward fly; 
And I — I too! — no more am found 
On London stones! 

In vain! — the woods, the fields deny 
That clearer strain I fain would try; 
Mine is an urban Muse, and bound 
By some strange law to paven ground; 
Abroad she pouts; — she is not shy 
On London stones! 

Austift Dob son 



"IN AFTER DAYS" 

In after days when grasses high 
O'ertop the stone where I shall lie. 
Though ill or well the world adjust 
My slender claim to honour'd dust, 
I shall not question nor reply. 

I shall not see the morning sicy; 
I shall not hear the night-wmd sigh; 
1 shall be mute, as all men must 
In after days! 

But yet, now living, fain would I 
That some one then should testify, 



330 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Saying — He held his -peti in trust 
To Art, not serving shame or lust. 
Will none? — Then let my memory die 
In after days! 

Austin Dobson 

"WHEN FINIS COMES" 

V 

When Finis comes, the Book we close, 

And somewhat sadly, Fancy goes, 

With backward step, from stage to stage 
Of that accomplished pilgrimage . . . 

The thorn lies thicker than the rose! 

There is so much that no one knows, — ^ 
So much un-reached that none suppose; '- 
What flaws! what faults! — on every page, X 
When Fi7iis comes. 

Still, — they must pass! The swift Tide flows. 
Though not for all the laurel grows, 

Perchance, in this be-slandered age, A- 

The worker, mainly, wins his wage; — ^ 

And Time will sweep both friends and foes *- 

When Finis comes! 

Austin Dobson 

TO AUSTIN DOBSON 

AFTER HIMSELF 

[Rondeau of Villon] 

At sixty years, when April's face 

Retrieves, as now, the winter's cold. 
Where tales of other Springs are told 

You keep your courtly pride of place. 

Within the circle's charmed space 
You rest unchallenged, as of old, 
At sixty years. 



RONDEAUS 331 

Not Time nor Silence sets its trace 
On golden lyre and voice of gold; 
Our Poets' Poet, still you hold 
The laurels got by no man's grace — 
At sixty years. 

Sir Owen Seaman 



RONDEL 

Kissing her hair I sat against her feet, 
Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet, 
Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes, 
Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies; 
With her own tresses bound and found her fair, 
Kissing her hair. 



Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, 
Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea; 
What pain could get between my face and hers? 
What new sweet thing would love not relish worse? 
Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there. 
Kissing her hair? 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



RONDEAU 

His poisoned shafts, that fresh he dips 
In juice of plants that no bee sips, 
He takes, and with his bow renown'd 
Goes out upon his hunting ground. 
Hanging his quiver at his hips. 



He draws them one by one, and clips 
Their heads between his finger-tips, 
And looses with a twanging sound 
His poisoned shafts. 



332 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

But if a maiden with her lips 
Suck from the wound the blood that drips, 
And drink the poison from the wound, 
The simple remedy is found 
That of their deadly terror strips 
His poisoned shafts. 
""X Robert Bridges 

RONDEAU 

For too much love 'tis soothly said 
There is no cure will stand in stead: 
Deadly the baits that first decoy; 
And where we look to find our joy 
Is all our pain and sorrow bred. 

Think not thyself the first misled! 
Many ere thou have fought and bled, 
Or pined away of slow annoy 
For too much love. 

And who has not the old tale read, 
Of how the flower of Hellas shed 
Their hearts' blood on the plains of Troy, 
And that fair city did destroy, 
And laid her heroes with the dead 
For too much love? 

Robert Bridges 

RONDEAU 

If Love should faint, and half decline 

Below the fit meridian sign. 

And shorn of all his golden dress. 
His royal state and loveliness, 

Be no more worth a heart like thine. 

Let not thy nobler passion pine. 

But with a charity divine, 

Let Memory ply her soft addresy 
If Love should faint j 



RONDEAUS 333 

And oh! this laggard heart of mine, 
Like some halt pilgrim stirred with wine, 
Shall ache in pity's dear distress, 
Until the balms of thy caress 
To work the finished cure combine 
If Love should faint. 

Edmund Gosse 



FORTUNATE LOVE 

FIRST SIGHT 

When first we met the nether world was white, 
And on the steel-blue ice before her bower 
I skated in the sunrise for an hour, 

Till all the grey horizon, gulphed in light. 

Was red against the bare boughs black as night; 
Then suddenly her sweet face like a flower. 
Enclosed in sables from the frost's dim power, 

Shone at her casement, and flushed burning bright 
When first we met! 

My skating being done, I loitered home, 

And sought that day to lose her face again; 
But Love was weaving in his golden loom 
My story up with hers, and all in vain 
I strove to loose the threads he spun amain, 
When first we met. 

Edmund Gosse 



EXPECTATION 

When flower-time comes and all the woods are gay, 
When linnets chirrup and the soft winds blow, 
Adown the winding river I will row, 

And watch tlxo. merry maidens tossing hay, 



334 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

And troops of children shouting in their play, 
And with my thin oars flout the fallen snow 
Of heavy hawthorn-blossom as 1 go, — 

And shall I see my love at fall of day 

When flower-time comes? 

Ah, yes! for by the border of the stream 
She binds red roses to a trim alcove. 
And I may fade into her summer-dream 
Of musing upon love, — nay, even seem 
To be myself the very god of love, 

When flower-time comes! 

Edmund Gosse 

IN THE CRASS 

Oh! flame of grass, shot upward from the earth. 
Keen with a thousand quivering sunlit fires. 
Green with the sap of satisfied desires 

And sweet fulfilment of your sad pale birth, 

Behold! 1 clasp you as a lover might. 

Roll on you, bathing in the noonday sun, 
And, if it might be, I would fain be one 

With all your odour, mystery and light. 

Oh, flame of grass! 

For here, to chasten my untimely gloom. 

My lady took my hand, and spoke my name; 
The sun was on her gold hair like a flame; 
The bright wind smote her forehead like perfume; 

The daisies darkened at her feet; she came, 
As Spring comes, scattering incense on your bloom 
Oh, flame of grass! 

Edmund Gosse 

BY THE WELL 

Hot hands that yearn to touch her flower-like face, 
With fingers spread, I set you like a weir 
To stem this ice-cold stream in its career, — 

And chill your pulses there a little space; 



RONDEAUS 335 

Brown hands, what right have you to claim the grace 

To touch her head so infinitely dear? 

Learn courteously to wait and to revere, 
Lest haply ye be found in sorry case, 

Hot hands that yearn! 

But if ye pluck her flowers at my behest, 

And bring her crystal water from the well, 
And bend a bough for shade when she will rest. 
And if she find you fain and teachable, 
That flower-like face, perchance, ah! who can tell 
In your embrace may some sweet day be pressed. 
Hot hands that yearn! 

Edmund Gosse 

A GARDEN-PIECE 

Among the flowers of summer-time she stood, 
And underneath the films and blossoms shone 
Her face, like some pomegranate strangely grown 

To ripe magnificence in solitude; 

The wanton winds, deft whisperers, had strewed 
Her shoulders with her shining hair outblown, 
And dyed her breast with many a changing tone 

Of silvery green, and all the hues that brood 

Among the flowers; 

She raised her arm up for her dove to know 

That he might preen him on her lovely head; 
But I, unseen, and rising on tiptoe. 
Bowed over the rose-barrier, and lo! 

Touched not her arm, but kissed her lips instead, 
Among the flowers! 

Edmund Gosse 

lover's quarrel 

Beside the stream and in the alder-shade, 
Love sat with us one dreamy afternoon. 
When nightingales and roses made up June, 

And saw the red light and the amber fade 



336 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Under the canopy the willows made, 

And watched the rising of the hollow moon, 
And listened to the water's gentle tune, 

And was as silent as she was, sweet maid. 

Beside the stream; 

'I^ill with "Farewell!" he vanished from our sight. 
And in the moonlight down the glade afar 
His light wings glimmered like a falling star; 
Then ah! she took the left path, I the right. 
And now no more we sit by noon or night 

Beside the stream! 
Edmund Gosse 



UNDER THE APPLE-TREE 

Against her breast I set my head, and lay 
Beneath the summer fruitage of a tree. 
Whose boughs last spring had borne for her and me 

The fleeting blossom of a doubtful day; 

That rose and white had tasted swift decay, 
And now the swelling fruits of certainty 
Hung there like pale green lamps, and fair to see, 

And I was strong to dream the hours away 

Against her breast: 

Her satins rustled underneath my head, 

Stirred by the motions of her perfect heart, 
But she was silent, till at last she said, — 
While all her countenance flushed rosy-red, — 
"Dear love! oh! stay forever where thou art. 
Against my breast!" 

Edmund Gosse 



"IN LOVE'S DISPORT" 

In love's disport, gay bubbles blown 

On summer winds light-freighted flown: 



RONDEAUS 337 

A child intent upon delight 
The painted spheres would keep in sight, 
Dissolved too soon in worlds unknown. 

Lo! from the furnace mouth hath grown 
Fair shapes, as frail; with jewelled zone, 
Clear globes where fate may read aright 
In love's disport. 

O frail as fair! though in the white 
Of flameful heat with force to fight. 
Art thou by careless hands cast down 
Or killed, when frozen hearts disown 
The children born of love and light. 
In love's disport. 
Walter Crane 



"WHAT MAKES THE WORLD?" 

What makes the world. Sweetheart, reply? 

A space of lawn, a strip of sky. 

The bread and wine of fellowship. 
The cup of life for love to sip, 

A glass of dreams in Hope's blue eye; 



So let the days and hours go by. 
Let Fortune flout, and Fame deny. 

With feathered heel shall fancy trip — 
What makes the world? 



The wealth that never in the grip 
Of blighting greed shall heedless slip, — 
When bought and sold is liberty, 
With worth of life and love gone by — 
What makes the world? 

Walter Crane 



338 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



RONDEAU 

"Lady, I offer nothing — I am yours." 

— Colombe's Birthday. 

-Wilt thou have words, when silence deep 

So sweet a secret still may keep. 

And breathe into thy soul from mine 

A wordless message so divine 

It makes the heart of music leap? — 

Such silence like celestial sleep, 
Hath visions, where, beyond the steep 
Dark ways of words, all things are thine: — 
Wilt thou have words? 

Dost thou then doubt, or fear to reap 
The ripened harvest? — Let me sweep 
All doubts away: ask thou no sign — 
Look in the eyes that now incline 
Their silence tow'rd thee! Dost thou weep? 
Wilt thou have words? 

Annie Matheson 



"WITHOUT ONE KISS" 

Without one kiss she's gone away, 
And stol'n the brightness out of day; 
With scornful lips and haughty brow 
She's left me melancholy now, 
In spite of all that 1 could say. 

And so, to guess as best I may 
What angered her, awhile I stay 
Beneath this blown acacia bough, 
Without one kiss; 

Yet all my wildered brain can pay 
My questioning, is but to pray 



RONDEAUS 339 

Persuasion may my speech endow, 
And Love may never more allow 
My injured sweet to sail away 
Without one kiss. 

Charles G. D. Roberts 

VIS EROTIS 

{Rofideau) 

Love that holdeth firm in fee 

Many a lord of many a land, 
From thy thraldom few would flee; 
Wide the wondrous potency 

Of thy heart-enchaining hand. 

Since on shining Cyprian sand 
Did thy mother, Venus, stand, 

Man and maid have worshipped thee, 

Love. 

They that scorn thy slaves to be, 

Oft before thy throne, unmanned. 
Grant thy great supremacy; 

Hear my prayer, O Monarch, and 
Let my lady smile on me, 

Love. 
Clinton Scollard 

MIGHT LOVE BE BOUGHT 

Might Love be bought, I were full fain 
My all to give thy love to gain. 

Yet would such getting profit naught; 

Possession with keen fears were fraught, 
Would make even love's blisses vain. 

For who could tell what god might deign 
His golden treasures round thee rain. 
Till ruin on my hopes were brought, 
Might Love be bought. 



340 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Better a pensioner remain 
On thy dear grace, since to attain 
To worthiness in vain I sought. 
Thy kindness hath assurance wrought 
Could never be between us twain 
Might Love be bought. 

Arlo Bates 



•V, 



IN THY CLEAR EYES 



In thy clear eyes, fairest, I see 

Sometimes of love a transient glow; 
But ere my heart assured may be. 
With cold disdain thou mockest me: 
Hope fades as songs to silence flow. 

Ah! most bewitching, mocking she. 

Fairer than poet's dream may show, 
The glance of scorn how can I dree 
In thy clear eyes? 

Life is so brief, and to and fro, 
Like thistledown above the lea. 

Fly on poor days; why then so slow 
To bend from pride? Let us bliss know 
Ere age the light dims ruthlessly 
In thy clear eyes. 

Arlo Bates 

RONDEAU 

One of these days, my lady whispereth, 
A day made beautiful with Summer's breath. 
Our feet shall cease from these divided ways. 
Our lives shall leave the distance and the haze 
And flower together in a mingling wreath. 
No pain shall part us then, no grief amaze. 
No doubt dissolve the glory of our gaze; 
Earth shall be heaven for us twain, she saith, 
One of these days. 



RONDEAUS 341 

Ah, love, my love! Athwart how many Mays 
The old hope lures us with its long delays! 

How many winters waste our fainting faith! 
I wonder, will it come this side of death, 
With any of the old sun in its rays, 
One of these days? 

JoAn Payne 

IF LOVE COULD LAST* 

If love could last, I'd spend my all 
And think the price were yet too small 
To buy his light upon my way, 
His 9un to turn my night to day, 
His cheer whatever might befall. 

Were I his slave, or he my thrall, 
No terrors should m) heart appal; 
I'd fear no wreckage or dismay 
If love could last. 

Heaven's lilies grow up white and tall, 
But warm within earth's garden wall 
With roses red and soft winds play — 
Ah, might 1 gather them to-day! 
My hands should never let them fall, 
If love could last. 

Louise Chandler Moulton 

RONDEAU 

To Elaine 

For you alone how shall I write 

A message from all others' sight 

Concealed, though every passer took 
His glance within this little book. 

Where'er it wing its wandering flight? 

♦ From Poems and Sonnets by Louise Chandler Moulton. 
Copyright 1909, Little, Brown & Company, Publishers, 



342 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

I would not rhyme you wishes trite 
Of health and wealth as others might; 
Your praise demands a secret nook 
For you alone! 

There, served by one rapt acolyte, 
'A lamp shall show, in Time's despite, 
Its flame by winter winds unshook — 
Can you divine where you must look 
To see this shrine that glows so bright 
For you alone? 

Gareth Marsh Stanton 



ALL LOVELY THINGS 

All lovely things conspire to greet 
Aly lady: daisies at her feet 

Sprang white and wistfully implored 
Her plucking; and with one accord 
The sunsets for her smile compete. 

The stars, in many a silver fleet, 
Set sail each night in hopes to meet 
Her eyes, that graciously reward 
All lovely things. 

All gay and gentle thoughts entreat 
Her favour and approval sweet; 

All sorrow, when to her outpoured, 
Is by her sympathy restored: 
She finishes and makes complete 
All lovely things. 

Christofher Morley 



RONDEAU 

Ah, Manon, say, why is it we 
Are one and all so fain of thee? 



RONDEAUS 343 

Thy rich red beauty debonnaire 
In very truth is not more fair, 
Than the shy grace and purity 
That clothe the maiden maidenly; 
Her gray eyes shine more tenderly 
And not less bright than thine her hair, 

Ah, Manon, say! 
Expound, I pray, the mystery 
Why wine-stained lip and languid eye, 
And most unsaintly Msnad air, 
Should move us more than all the rare 
White roses of virginity? 

Ah, Manon, say! 

Ernest Dozvson 

TO TAMARIS 

It is enough to love you. Let me be 
Only an influence, as the wandering sea 

Answers the moon that yet foregoes to shine; 

Only a sacrifice, as in a shrine 
The lamp burns on where dead eyes cannot see; 
Only a hope unknown, withheld from thee. 
Yet ever like a petrel plaintively. 

Just following on to life's far twilight line, 

It is enough. 

Go where you will, I follow. You are free. 
Alone, unloved, to all eternity 

I track that chance no virtue can divine. 
When pitiful, loving, with fond hands in mine. 
You say: "True heart, here take your will of me, 

It is enough." 

Theo. Marzials 

O SCORN ME NOT 

O scorn me not, although my worth be slight. 
Although the stars alone can match thy light, 



344 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Although the wind alone can mock thy grace, 
And thy glass only show so fair a face — 
Yet — let me find some favour in thy sight. 

The proud stars will not bend from their chill height, 
Nor will the wind thy faithfulness requite. 
Thy mirror gives thee but a cold embrace. 
O scorn me not. 

My lamp is feeble, but by day or night 
It shall not wane, and, but for thy delight, 
My footsteps shall not for a little space 
Forego the echo of thy tender pace, — 
I would so serve and guard thee if I might. 
O scorn me not. 

Cosmo Monkhouse 



MY LOVE TO ME 

My love to me is always kind: 
She neither storms, nor is she pined; 
She does not plead with tears or sighs, 
But gentle words and soft replies — 
Dear earnests of the thought behind. 

They say the little god is blind, 

They do not count him quite too wise; 
Yet he, somehow, could bring and bind 
My love to rae. 

And sweetest nut hath sourest rind? 
It may be so; but she I prize 
Is even lovelier in mine eyes 
Than good and gracious to my mind. 
I bless the fortune that consigned 

My love to me. 

W. E. Henley 



RONDEAUS 345 



IF I WERE KING 

If I were king — ah, love, if I were king! 
What tributary nations would I bring 
To stoop before your sceptre and to swear 
Allegiance to your lips and eyes and hair. 
Beneath your feet what treasures I would fling: — 
The stars should be your pearls upon a string. 
The world a ruby for your finger ring. 
And you should have the sun and moon to wear 
If I were king. 

Let then wild dreams and wilder words take wing, 

Deep in the woods I hear a shepherd sing 

A simple ballad to a sylvan air. 

Of love that ever finds your face more fair. 

I could not give you any godlier thing 

If I were king. 

Justin Huntley McCarthy 

IF I WERE KING 

If I were king, my pipe should be premier. 
The skies of time and chance are seldom clear. 

We would inform them all with bland blue weather. 
Delight alone would need to shed a tear. 

For dream and deed should war no more together. 

Art should aspire, yet ugliness be dear; 

Beauty, the shaft, should speed with wit for feather; 
Ard love, sweet love, should never fall to sere, 
If I were king. 

But politics should find no harbour near; 

The Philistine should fear to slip his tether; 
Tobacco should be duty free, and beer; 

In fact, in room of this, the age of leather, 
An age of gold all radiant should appear, 
If I were king. 

W. E. Henley 



346 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



LOVE IN LONDON 

In London town men love and hate. 

And find Death tragic soon or late. 

Just in the old unreasoning way, 

.As if they breathed the warmer day 

In Athens when the gods were great. 

Mine is the town by Thames's spate. 
And so it chanced I found my fate, 
One of my fates, that is to say — 
In London town. 

The whole world comes to those who wait; 
Mine came and went with one year's date. 
Pity it made so short a stay! 
The sweetest face, the sweetest sway 
That ever Love did consecrate 

In London town. 
Justin Huntle-^ McCarthy 

RONDEAUX OF CITIES 



(Rondeau a la Boston) 

A cultured mind! Before I speak 

The words, sweet maid, to tinge thy cheek 
With blushes of the nodding rose 
That on thy breast in beauty blows, 

I prithee satisfy my freak. 

Canst thou read Latin and eke Greek? 

Dost thou for knowledge pine and peak? 
Hast thou, in short, as I suppose, 
A cultured mind? 

Some men require a maiden meek 
Enough to eat at need the leek; 



RONDEAUS 347 

Some lovers crave a classic nose, 
A liquid eye, or faultless pose; 
I none of these, I only seek 

A cultured mind. 

11. 

(Rondeau a la New York) 

A pot of gold! O mistress fair, 
With eyes of brown that pass compare, 

Ere I on bended knee express 

The love which you already guess, 
I fain would ask a small affair. 

Hast thou, my dear, an ample share 
Of this world's goods? Wilt thy papa * 
Disgorge, to gild our blessedness, 
A pot of gold? 

Some swains for mental graces care; 
Some fall a prey to golden hair; 

I am not blind, I will confess. 

To intellect or comeliness; 
Still let these go beside, ma chere, 
A pot of gold. 



(Rondeau a la Philadelphia) 

A pedigree! Ah, lovely jade! 

Whose tresses mock the raven's shade, 
Before I free this aching breast, 
I want to set my mind at rest; 

'Tis best to call a spade a spade. 

What was thy father ere he made 

His fortune? Was he smeared with trade, 



* Pronounced fafaire. 



348 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Or does he boast an ancient crest — 
A pedigree? 

Brains and bright eyes are overweighed, 
For wits grow dull and beauties fade; 
•-^ And riches, though a welcome guest, 

Oft jar the matrimonial nest; 
I kiss her lips who holds displayed 
A pedigree, 

IV. 

(Rondeau a la Baltimore) 

A pretty face! O maid divine. 
Whose vowels flow as soft as wine, 
Before I say upon the rack 
The words 1 never can take back, 
A moment meet my glance with thine. 

Say, art thou fair? Is the mcline 
Of that sweet nose an aquiline? 
Hast thou, despite unkind attack, 
A pretty face? 

Some sigh for wisdom; Three, not nine, 
The Graces were. I won't repine 
For want of pedigree, or lack 
Of gold to banish Care the black, 
If I can call forever mine 

A pretty face. 

Robert Grant 



AT HOME 

At home to-night, alone with Dot, 
I loaf my soul and care not what 

In worlds beyond may come or go. 

Four walls, a roof, to brave the snow, 
Suffice to bound this Eden spot. 



RONDEAUS 349 

Dot has her sewing things; I've got 
My pipe, a glass of something hot 

And Dot herself; The world's aglow, 
At home to-night. 

As lovers in some golden plot 
The poet weaves of Camelot 

We feel apart from earth. We know 
The servant in the hall below 
Will say to all who call we're not 
At home to-night. 

T. A. Daly 

HER SPINNING-WHEEL 

Her spinning-wheel she deftly guides, 
As by the homely hearth she bides; 

Within a quaint, old straight-backed chair, 

A damsel with a modest air. 
Over the treadle swift, presides. 

But through the years Time onward glides, 
Careless if good or ill betides; 

Nor will his ruthless changes spare 
Her spinning wheel. 

Another cycle he provides. 
Though censor carps and critic chides, 
The modern maid, fearless and fair. 
Daintily gay and debonair; 
Trimly equipped, triumphant rides 
Her spinning wheel. 

Carolyn Wells 

FOR A BIRTHDAY * 

At two years old the world he sees 
Must seem expressly made to please! 

* From T/ie Rocking Horse by Christopher Morley. Copy- 
right 1919, George H. Doran Company, Publishers. 



350 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Such new-found words and games to try, 
Such sudden mirth, he knows not why. 
So many curiosities! 

As life about him, by degrees 
. Discloses all its pageantries 
fie watches with approval shy 
At two years old. 

With wonders tired he takes his ease 
At dusk, upon his mother's knees: 
A little laugh, a little cry, 
Put toys to bed, then "seepy-bye" — 
The world is made of such as these 
At two years old. 

Christofher Morley 



A FATHER SPEAKS 

Our son and heir grows like a tree 

In Spring when the first wave of glee 

Rushes across the oldest hills 

And laughs along the boughs, and fills 
The timidest twigs with energy. 

The boy within me leaps to see 
This echoing laugh of gayety 

Bridging the years; its vigor thrills 
Our son and heir. . . . 

I dare not think how much may be 
Growing in him. I know that he, 
Facing the world's perpetual ills, 
Must rise above its whims and wills. 
He is, more than mere life to me. 
Our sun and air! 

Louis Untertneyer 



RONDEAUS 351 

MAIDEN MEDITATION 

(A Rondeau) 

Myrtilla thinks! be still, oh, breeze, 
Ye birds, cease warbling in the trees, 

Ye wavelets, your light plash subdue, 

Ye turtle-doves, neglect to coo, 
And silent be, ye buzzing bees. 

Lest even your soft harmonies 

Intrude upon such thoughts as these. 
For though astonishing, 'tis true, 
Myrtilla thinks! 

Plunged in profoundest reveries. 
Fair visions her rapt fancy sees; 
So undecided what to do — 
Shall she wear pink? shall she wear blue? 
Amid her pretty fineries 
Myrtilla thinks! 

Carolyn Wells 

SUB ROSA 

Under the rows of gas-jets bright, 
Bathed in a blazing river of light, 

A regal beauty sits; above her 

The butterflies of fashion hover. 
And burn their wings, and take to flight. 

Mark you her pure complexion, — white 
Though flush may follow flush. Despite 
Her blush, the lily I discover 

Under the rose. 

All compliments to her are trite; 
She has adorers left and right; 



352 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

And I confess, here, under cover 
Of secrecy, I too — I love her! 
Say naught; she knows it not. 'Tis quite 
Under the rose. 
Brander Matthews 



AN APRIL FOOL 

(Rondeau) 

An April Fool, I swear, is one 

Who trusts the shade or trusts the sun, 

Or aught that's in an April day. 

Or — put it in another way — 
Who trusts a woman. I trust none. 

You do, Sir Romeo? Well begun! 
Yes, I myself once thought it fun 

For woman's sake your part to play — 
An April Fool. 

By stern experience taught to shun 
The web by witching glances spun, 
Deliverance from their toils I pray. 
I'm safe in scorn — what's that you say? 
/'d be— /.?— if I didn't run— 

An April Fool? 
Henry Cuyler Bunner 

THAT NEW YEAR'S CALL 
(Rondeau) 

That New Year's Call — the thirty-first. 

And thirty, even, I had cursed, 

And marked off on my weary list — 
And knit my brow and clenched my fist: 

I'd cut as many as I durst. 



RONDEAUS 353 

I'd saved till next to last the worst, 
And there upon my sight there burst 
A vision. Well, I'd not have missed 
That New Year's Call. 



I had been bored; but now she pursed 
Her rosy lips, as I rehearsed 

The things so often said — the gist 
I don't recall. 'Twas quite a twist — 
The situation was reversed 

TAat New Year's Call. 

Henry CuyUr Bunner 



SAINT VALENTINE 

(Rondeau) 

St. Valentine! well hast thou said, 
(Or some one said it in thy stead,) 
That of our fancies we may frame, 
In verses signed with ne'er a name, 
A ladder up to Love to tread. 



Sweet saint, thou hadst a largish head, 
And though thou never couldst have wed, 
I think thou flirtedst all the same — 
St. Valentine. 



'Tis not for nothing I have spread 
Myself on paper, sealed with red. 
Red wax — a cupid taking aim. 
I'm sure she'll know from whom it came. 
If o'er it be thy blessing shed, 

St. Valentine. 
Henry Cuyler Bunner 



354 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

AT PEEP OF DAWN 

(Rondeau) 

At peep of dawn the daffodil 
-That slumbers 'neath the grassy hill, 
Greets smilingly, with lifted head. 
The rosy Morn's oncoming tread, 
The thrush sings matins by the rill. 

The swallows from the ruined mill 
Go coursing through the air, and fill 
The sky with songs till then unsaid 
At peep of dawn. 

No harbinger of day is still. 
With pipe new-tuned and merry trill 
The lark uprises from her bed 
'Mong grasses wet with dews unshed, 
And puts to shame the whip-poor-will 
At peep of dawn. 

Clinton Scollard 

IN VISIONSHIRE 

In Visionshire the sky is blue, 

And all the things I meant to do. 
And all the joys I might have missed 
And all the lips I might have kissed 

Wait for me, ever fresh and new! 

My unwrit song is sung there, too, 

And there my dearest dreams come true- 
Ay, more dreams than my heart has wist 
In Visionshire! 

For roses I shall trade my rue, 

And, wandering those gardens through. 



RONDEAUS 355 

Shall find the pathway as I list 
Where I may keep that old, old tryst 
That long ago I made with you 
In Visionshire! 

Edwin Meade Robinson 



RONDEAUX OF THE GALLERIES 

Camelot 

In Camelot how grey and green 

The Damsels dwell, how sad their teen, 

In Camelot how green and grey 

The melancholy poplars sway. 

I wis I wot not what they mean 

Or wherefore, passionate and lean. 

The maidens mope their loves between, 

Not seeming to have much to say, 

In Camelot. 
Yet there hath armour goodly sheen 
The blossoms in the apple treen, 
(To spell the Camelotian way) 
Show fragrant through the doubtful day. 
And Master's work is often seen 

In Camelot! 

Philistia 

Philistia! Maids in muslin white 
With flannelled oarsmen oft delight 
To drift upon thy streams, and float 
In Salter's most luxurious boat; 
In buff and boots the cheery knight 
Returns (quite safe) from Naseby fight; 
Thy humblest folks are clean and bright. 
Thou still must win the public vote, 

Philistia! 
Observe the High Church curate's coat. 
The realistic hansom note! 



356 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Ah, happy land untouched of blight, 
Smirks, Bishops, Babies, left and right, 
We know thine every charm by rote, 
Philistia! 

Andrew Lang 

WITH STRAWBERRIES 

With strawberries we filled a tray, 
And then we drove away, away 
Along the links beside the sea. 
Where wave and wind were light and free. 
And August felt as fresh as May. 

And where the springy turf was gay 
With thyme and balm and many a spray 
Of wild roses, you tempted me 
With strawberries! 

A shadowy sail, silent and grey, 
Stole like a ghost across the bay; 

But none could hear me ask my fee, 
And none could know what came to be. 
Can sweethearts all their thirst allay 
With strawberries? 

W . E. Henley 



"VIOLET" 

Violet, delicate, sweet, 

Down in the deep of the wood. 
Hid in thy still retreat, 
Far from the sound of the street, 

Man and his merciless mood: — 

Safe from the storm and the heat. 
Breathing of beauty and good 
Fragrantly, under thy hood 

Violet. 



RONDEAUS 357 

Beautiful maid, discreet, 
Where is the mate that is meet, 

Meet for thee — strive as he could — 
Yet will I kneel at thy feet, 
Fearing another one should, 
Violet! 
Cosmo Monkhouse 



IN BEECHEN SHADE 

In beechen shade the hours are sweet, 
By mist-veiled morn or noonday heat 
(And sweeter still when daylight dies) 
So soft the wandering streamlet sighs 
In passage musical and fleet. 

Full drowsily the white lambs bleat, 
And tinkling bell-notes faintly beat 
The languid air where Lacon lies 
In beechen shade. 

And still, when day and even meet; 
Selene strays with golden feet, 

That gleam along the low blue skies 
And paceth slow, with dreaming eyes 
That seek the shepherd's dim retreat 

'Mid beechen shade. 
Graham R. Tomson 

AMONG MY BOOKS 

Among my books — what rest is there 
From wasting woes! what balm for care! 
If ills appal or clouds hang low. 
And drooping dim the fleeting show, 
I revel still in visions rare. 

At will I breathe the classic air, 
The wanderings of Ulysses share; 



3 58 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Or see the plume of Bayard flow 
Among my books. 

Whatever face the world may wear — 
If Lilian has no smile to spare, 
For others let her beauty blow, 
Such favours I can well forego; 
Perchance forget the frowning fair 
Among my books 

Samuel Minturn Peck 



TO R. L. S. 

Dear R. L. S., whose books each night 
We used to read by candle-light, 
These many years your body lies 
Under the blue Samoan skies, 
But still your words ring warm and bright. 

In these poor rhymes, however slight, 
I fain would tell you, if I might, 

Your words brought gladness to her eyes. 
Dear R. L. S, 

The magic you knew how to write 
Evoked her laughter of delight: 

With gratitude which rhyme denies 
Full utterance — do not despise — 
To You, to Her, I this indite. 
Dear R. L. S. 

Christofher Morley 



TO CATULLUS 

A Rondel 

Laughter and tears to you the gods once gave, 
Those silver tears upon your brother's grave, 



RONDEAUS 359 

And golden laughter in your lady's bower, 
And silver-gold in your love's bitter hour. 
You showed us, burdened with our hopes and fears, 
Laughter and tears. 



Poor tears that fell upon the thirsty sands. 
Poor laughter stifled with ungentle hands, 
Poor heart that was so sweet to laugh and cry. 
Your joyful, mournful songs shall never die. 
But show us still across the shadowing years 
Laughter and tears. 

E. A. Mackintosh, M. C. 



WHEN SHAKESPEARE LAUGHED* 

When Shakespeare laughed, the fun began! 

Even the tavern barmaids ran 

To choke in secret, and unbent 
A lace, to ease their merriment. 

The Mermaid rocked to hear the man. 



Then Ben his aching girth would span, 
And roar above his pasty pan, 

"Avast there. Will, for I am spent!" 
When Shakespeare laughed. 



I'faith, let him be grave who can 
When Falstaff, Puck and Caliban 
In one explosive jest are blent. 
The boatman on the river lent 
An ear to hear the mirthful clan 

When Shakespeare laughed. 

Christo'pher Morley 

* From The Rocking Horse by Christopher Morley. Copy- 
right 1919, George H. Doran Company, Publishers. 



360 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



WITH PIPE AND BOOK 

With Pipe and Book at close of day, 
O! what is sweeter, mortal, say; 

It matters not what book on knee. 

Old Izaak or the Odyssey, 
It matters not meerschaum or clay. 

And though one's eyes will dream astray, 
And lips forget to sue or sway, 
It is "enough to merely Be," 
With Pipe and Book. 

What though our modern skies be grey, 
As bards aver, I will not pray 

For "soothing Death" to succour me. 
But ask thus much, O Fate, of thee, — 
A little longer here to stay 
With Pipe and Book, 

Richard Le Gallienne 



THE OLD AND THE NEW 

The Old Year goes down-hill so slow 

And silent that he seems to know 

The mighty march of time, foretelling 
His departure; to his eyelids welling 

Come tears of bitter pain and woe. 

The lusty blast can scarce forego 

His cape about his ears to blow, 

As feebly to his final dwelling 

The Old Year goes! 

Within the belfry, row on row, 
The bells are swinging to and fro; 

Now joyfully the chimes are swelling — 
Now solemn and few the notes are knelling- 



RONDEAUS 361 

For here the New Year comes: — and lo! 
The Old Year goes! 

Brander Matthews 



THE NEW YEAR 

The ships go down to take the sea. 
Who seeks the dawn-pale mystery 

That lies beyond the violet bays? 

What masts shall dip into the haze, 
Slip through, to where the sea-lights be? 

Oh, valiant young explorers we! 
Of the dim seas hope makes us free: 
Into the dawn-gray water-ways 
The ships go down. 

And none may know for what far quay 
Their sails are set, or what their fee. 

Some bear rich freights through golden days; 
Some come to where the dim sea sways 
And breaks, and, vanquished utterly. 
The ships go down. 

Rose Macaulay 



OLD YEAR 

The old sea-ways send up their tide; 

The battered ships to harbour ride. 
In the deep seas beyond the bar, 
Where the great winds and waters are. 

The drifting ships have dropped their pride: 

When for the morning seas they plied. 
Who but young Hope should be their guide. 
To steer them through the rocks that scar 
The old sea-ways? 



362 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Into the port they reel and slide, 
So for a little space abide, 

Waiting the gleam of the dawn-star 
To seek new waters, strange and far. 
But no more shall their keels divide 
■-^ The old sea-ways. 

Rose Macaulay 



SLEEP 

O happy sleep! that bear'st upon thy breast 
The blood-red poppy of enchanting rest. 

Draw near me through the stillness of this place 
And let thy low breath move across my face, 
As faint winds move above a poplar's crest. 

The broad seas darken slowly in the west; 
The wheeling sea-birds call from nest to nest; 
Draw near and touch me, leaning out of space, 
O happy Sleep! 

There is no sorrow hidden or confess'd, 
There is no passion uttered or suppress'd. 
Thou canst not for a little while efface; 
Enfold me in thy mystical embrace. 
Thou sovereign gift of God, most sweet, most blest, 
O happy Sleep! 

Ada Louise Martin 



THE GODS ARE DEAD 

The gods are dead? Perhaps they are! Who knows? 

Living at least in Lempriere undeleted. 
The wise, the fair, the awful, the jocose. 

Are one and all, I like to think, retreated 
In some still land of lilacs and the rose. 



RONDEAUS 363 

Once high they sat, and high o'er earthy shows 

With sacrificial dance and song were greeted, 
Once . . . long ago: but now the story goes. 
The gods are dead. 

It must be true. The world a world of prose, 

Full-crammed with facts, in science swathed and 
sheeted, 
Nods in a stertorous after-dinner doze. 
Plangent and sad, in every wind that blows 

Who will may hear the sorry words repeated — 
The gods are dead. 

W. E. Henley 

THE GATES OF HORN 

The Gates of Horn are dull of hue 
(If all our wise men tell us true). 
No songs, they say, nor perfumed air 
Shall greet the wistful pilgrim there, 
No leaves are green, no skies are blue. 

Yet he who will may find a clue 
(Mid shadows steeped in opal dew) 
To seek, and see them passing fair. 
The Gates of Horn. 

The man that goes not wreathed with rue. 
Right lovely shapes his smile shall sue, 
With red rose-garlands in their hair 
And garments gay with gold and vair. 
Full fain to meet him trooping through 
The Gates of Horn. 

Graham R. Toms on 



WHAT IS TO COME 

What is to come we know not. But we know 
That what has been was good — was good to show, 



364 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Better to hide, and best of all to bear. 
We are the masters of the days that were: 
We have lived, we have loved, we have suffered — even so. 

Shall we not take the ebb who had the flow? 
Life was our friend. Now, if it be our foe — 

Dear, though it break and spoil us! — need we care 
What is to come? 

Let the great winds their worst and wildest blow, 
Or the gold weather round us mellow slow: 
We have fulfilled ourselves, and we can dare 
And we can conquer, though we may not share 
In the rich quiet of the afterglow 

What is to come. 

W. E. Henley 



BEYOND THE NIGHT 

Beyond the night no withered rose 
Shall mock the later bud that blows. 
Nor lily blossom e'er shall blight, 
But all shall gleam more pure and white 
Than starlight on the Arctic snows. 

Sigh not when daylight dimmer grows. 
And life a turbid river flows. 
For all Is sweetness — all is light 
Beyond the night. 

Oh, haste, sweet hour that no man knows; 
Uplift us from our cumbering woes 

Where joy and peace shall crown the right, 
And perished hopes shall blossom bright — 
To aching hearts bring sweet repose 
Beyond the night. 

Samuel Minturn Peck 



RONDEA US 365 



O WINDS THAT WAIL 

O winds that wail in sombre skies, 
When day has closed his weary eyes; 
What shadow thoughts do you suggest 
With your perpetual unrest 
Moaning nocturnal mysteries? 

Dim faces, ancient memories, 
Deeds we had fashioned otherwise, 
Words we had stifled unexpressed; 
O winds that wail! 

Past strivings and futilities, 
Aiid half- forgotten agonies; 
Such are the messages you bring, 
With your insistent whispering 
And indeterminable sighs, 

O winds that wail! 

Arthur Conifton-Rickett 

LES MORTS VONT VITE * 

Les morts vont vitel Ay, for a little space 

We miss and mourn them, fallen from their place; 

To take our portion in their rest are fain ; 

But by-and-by, having wept, press on again. 
Perchance to win their laurels in the race. 

What man would find the old in the new love's face? 
Seek on the fresher lips the old kisses' trace. 
For withered roses newer blooms disdain? 
Les morts vont vitel 

But when disease brings thee in piteous case. 
Thou shalt thy dead recall, and thy ill grace 

* From The Poems of H. C. Bunner. Copyright 1917 by 
Charles Scribner's Sons, Publishers. 



366 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

To them for whom remembrance plead in vain. 
Then, shuddering, think, while thy bed-fellow Pain 
Clasps thee with arms that cling like Death's embrace: 
Les morts vont vite! 

Henry Cuyler Bunner 

LES MORTS VONT VITE 

Les morts vont vite: The dead go fast! 
So runs the motto France has cast. 

To nature man must pay his debt; 

Despite all struggle, despite all fret, 
He journeys swift to the future vast. 

It needs no ghost from out the past, 
To make mere mortals stand aghast, — 
To make them dream of death — and yet 
Les morts vont vite. 

Although the sails (bellowed by blast) 
Of Charon's bark may strain the mast — 
The dead are not dead while we regret; 
The dead are not dead till we forget; 
But true the motto, or first or last: 

Les morts vont vite. 
Brander Matthews 



RONDEAU: OH, IN MY DREAMS I FLEW! 

Why not, my Soul? Why not fare forth, and fly 
Free as thy dreams were free! — with them to vie; 

There thou wert bold — thou knew'st not doubt nor fear, 
Thy will was there thy deed — ah, why not here? 
Thou need'st but faith to carry thee on high! 

A thousand things that others dare not try — 
A thousand hopes thy heart doth prophesy; 

Thou knowest the master-word, oh, speak it clear! 
Why not, my soul? 



RONDEAUS 367 

Let not this world of little things deny; 
Break thy frail bonds, and in those dreams rely! 
Trust to the counsels of that other sphere; 
Let that night's vision in the day appear; 
Walk forth upon the water — wing the sky! 
Why not, my soul? 

Gelett Burgess 



TO DEATH, OF HIS LADY 

(Frangois Villon) 

Death, of thee do I make my moan. 
Who hadst my lady away from me. 
Nor wilt assuage thine enmity 

Till with her life thou hast mine own; 

For since that hour my strength has flown. 
Lo! what wrong was her life to thee. 
Death? 

Two we were, and the heart was one; 

Which now being dead, dead I must be, 
Or seem alive as lifelessly 
As in the choir the painted stone, 
Death ! 
Dante Gabriel Rossetti 

GRAVE GALLANTRY 
After Charles Garni er 



My rival Death is fashioned amorously; — 
No caliph boasts more comely wives than he, 
For whom crowned Cleopatra reft the snare 
Of careful-eyed Octavius, and — less fair 
Than she, but lovely still — Leucothoe, 



368 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

And Atalanta, and Antigone, 

Loosed virgin zones. . . . What need hadst thou to be 
Desirous then of this girl's lips and hair, 
My rival Death? 

What need hadst thou likewise of Dorothy! 
Wha"t need of that which was all life to me! 
What need, lascivious Death, that she forswear 
Fond oaths to me — fond oaths made otherwhere — 
In thy lank arms, and leave me friends with thee, 
My rival, Death! 



Had she divined how many virelais 
Have feebly parodied some piercing phase 
Of love for her whom love lacked might to claim — 
How many rhymes have marshalled frail and lame, 
Yet fervent-hearted, to avouch her praise, — 
Such pity had been mine as well repays 
Drear years of waiting. — Ey, in kindlier days 
Compassion might have worn some kinglier name 

Had she divined. 

Now that may never be; divergent ways 
Allured; and all is ended; and naught betrays 
Dead cheeks to kindle, now, with livelier flame 
For aught I utter. . . . Yet it were no shame 
To dream a little on her softening gaze 

Had she divined. 



That she is dead breeds no uncouth despair. 
However, — as death bred when men would bear 
A glove upon their helms, and slay or sing 
In honor of its giver, hazarding 
Life and life's aims because a girl was fair. . . 
Grotesque their liege-lord seems when we compare 
That Cupidling who spurs me to declare 



RONDEAUS 369 

Sedate regret, in rhythmic sorrowing 

That she is dead. 

Nay, he is much the punier of the pair, — 
My little lord, who dreads lest critics stare 
Too pc'intedly, — a flimsy faineant king; — 
Yet hearts may crack without crude posturing. 
This gi i is deadj and I confess I care 

That she is dead. 

James Branch Cabell 



A MAN MUST LIVE 

A man must live! We justify 
Low shift and trick to treason high, 
A little vote for a little gold, 
To a whole senate bought and sold, 
With this self-evident reply. 

But is it so? Pray tell me why 
Life at such cost you have to buy? 
In what religion were you told 
'A man must live? ' 

Tliere are times when a man must die. 
Imagine for a battle-cry 

From soldier with a sword to hold — 
From soldiers with the flag unrolled — 
This coward's whine, this liar's lie, 
'A man must live? ' 

Charlotte Perkins Stetson 



ALL MEN ARE FREE! 

'All men are free and equal born 

Before the Law!' So runs the worn 
And specious, lying, parrot-cry. 
All men are free — to starve or sigh; 
But few to feed on Egypt's corn. 



370 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

There toils the sweated slave, forlorn; 
There weeps the babe with hunger torn; 
Dear God! Forgive us for the lie — 
'All men are free!' 

That man may laugh while this mus' mourn; 
One's heir to honour, one to scorn — 

Were they born free? Were you? Was 1? 
No! Not when born, but when they die 
And of their robes — or rags — are shorn. 
All men are free! 

Elliott Nafier 



IN FLANDERS FIELDS* 

In Flanders fields the poppies blow 
Between the crosses, row on row. 

That mark our place, and in the sky, 
The larks, still bravely singing, fly. 
Scarce heard amid the guns below. 

We are the dead; short days ago 
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, 
Loved and were loved, and now we lie 
In Flanders fields. 

Take up our quarrel with the foe! 
To you from failing hands we throw 

The torch; be yours to hold it high! 

If ye break faith with us who die 
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow 

In Flanders fields. 

John McCrae 

* From In Flanders Fields by John McCrae. Courtesy of 
G. P. Putnam's Sons, Publishers, New York and London. 



ROUNDELS 



THE ROUNDEL 

A roundel is wrought as a ring or a star-bright sphere, 
With craft of delight and with cunning of sound unsought, 
That the heart of the hearer may smile if to pleasure his ear 
A roundel is wrought. 

Its jewel of music is carven of all or of aught — 

Love, laughter or mourning — remembrance of rapture or 

fear — r/ 

That fancy may fashion to hang in the ear of thought. 

As a bird's quick song runs round, and the hearts in us hear 
Pause answer to pause, and again the same strain caught, 
So moves the device whence, round as a pearl or tear, 
A roundel is wrought. 

Algernon Charles Swmburne 



ETUDE REALISTE 



A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink. 

Might tempt, should heaven see meet, 
An angel's lips to kiss, we think, 
A baby's feet. 

Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat 

They stretch and spread and w/nk 
Their ten soft buds that part and meet. 

No flower-bells that expand and shrink 

Gleam half so heavenly sweet 
As shine on life's untrodden brink 
A baby's feet. 

m 



374 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled, 

Whence yet no leaf expands, 
Ope if you touch, though close upcurled, 
A baby's hands. 

Then, even as warriors grip their brands 

When battle's bolt is hurled. 
They close, clenched hard like tightening bands. 

No rosebuds yet by dawn impearled 

Match, even in loveliest lands, 
The sweetest flowers in all the world — 
A baby's hands. 



A baby's eyes, ere speech begin 

Ere lips learn words or sighs. 
Bless all things bright enough to win 
A baby's eyes. 

Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies. 

And sleep flows out and in. 
Lies perfect in them Paradise. 

Their glance might cast out pain and sin. 

Their speech make dumb the wise, 
By mute glad godhead felt within 
A baby's eyes. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



BABYHOOD 



A Baby shines as bright 
If winter or if May be 
On eyes that keep in sight 
A baby. 



ROUNDELS 37 S 

Though dark the skies or gray be, 
It fills our eyes with light, 
If midnight or midday be. 

Love hails it, day and night, 
The sweetest thing that may be. 
Yet cannot praise aright 
A baby. 



All heaven, in every baby born. 
All absolute of earthly leaven. 
Reveals itself, tho' man may scorn 
All heaven. 

Yet man might feel all sin forgiven, 
All grief appeased, all pain outworn. 
By this one revelation given. 

Soul, now forget thy burdens borne; 
Heart, be thy joys now seven times seven: 
Love shows in light more bright than morn 
All heaven. 



What likeness may define, and stray not 

From truth's exactest way, 
A baby's beauty? Love can say not 

What likeness may. 

The Mayflower loveliest held in May 

Of all that shine and stay not 
Laughs not in rosier disarray. 

Sleek satin, swansdown, buds that play not 

As yet with winds that play. 
Would fain be matched with this, and may not: 

What likeness may? 



376 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



Rose, round whose bed 
Dawn's cloudlets close 
Earth's brightest-bred 
'V Rose! 

No song, love knows, 
May praise the head 
Your curtain shows. 

Ere sleep has fled, 
The whole child glows 
One sweet live red 
Rose. 

Algernon Char lei Swinburne 



FLOWER-PIECES 



Love Lies Bleeding 

Love lies bleeding in the bed whereover 
Roses lean with smiling mouths or pleading: 
Earth lies laughing where the sun's dart clove her: 
Love lies bleeding. 

Stately shine his purple plumes, exceeding 
Pride of princess; nor shall maid or lover 
Find on earth a fairer sign worth heeding. 

Yet may love, sore wounded, scarce recover 
Strength and spirit again, with life receding: 
Hope and joy, wind-winged, about him hover: 
Love lies bleeding. 



ROUNDELS 377 



Love in a Mist 

Light love in a mist, hy the midsummer moon misguided, 
Scarce seen in the twilight garden if gloom insist, 
Seems vainly to seek for a star whose gleam has derided 
Light love in a mist. 

All day in the sun, when the breezes do all they list, 
His soft blue raiment of cloudlike blossom abided 
Unrent and unwithered of winds and of rays that kissed. 

Blithe-hearted or sad, as the cloud or the sun subsided. 
Love smiled in the flower with a meaning wherdof none wist 
Save two that beheld, as a gleam that before them glided, 
Light love in a mist. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



AT SEA 

'Farewell and adieu' was the burden prevailing 
Long since in the chant of a home-faring crew; 
And the heart in us echoes, with laughing or wailing, 
Farewell and adieu. 

Each year that we live shall we sing it anew. 
With a water untravelled before us for sailing 
And a water behind us that wrecks may bestrew. 

The stars of the past and the beacons are paling. 
The heavens and the waters are hoarier of hue; 
But the heart in us chants not an all unavailing 
Farewell and adieu. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



378 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

THREE FACES 



.,^ Ventimiglia 

The sky and sea glared hard and bright and blank: 
Down the one steep street, with slow steps firm and free 
A tall girl paced, with eyes too proud to thank 
The sky and sea. 

One dead flat sapphire, void of wrath or glee, 
Through bay on bay shone blind from blank to blank 
The weary Mediterranean, drear to see. 

More deep, more living, shone her eyes that drank 
The breathless light and shed again on me, 
Till pale before their splendor waned and shrank 
The sky and sea. 



Genoa 

Again the same strange might of eyes, that saw 
In heaven and earth nought fairer, overcame 
My sight with rapture of reiterate awe, 
Again the same. 

The self-same pulse of wonder shook like flame 
The spirit of sense within me: what strange law 
Had bid this be, for blessing or for blame? 

To what veiled end that fate or chance foresaw 
Came forth this second sister face, that came 
Absolute, perfect, fair, without a flaw. 
Again the same? 



ROUNDELS 379 

III 

Venice 

Out of the dark pure twilight, where the stream 
Flows glimmering, streaked by many a birdlike bark 
That skims the gloom whence towers and bridges gleam 
Out of the dark. 

Once more a face no glance might choose but mark 
Shone pale and bright, with eyes whose deep slow beam 
Made quick the twilight, lifeless else and stark. 

The same it seemed, or mystery made it seem, 
As those before beholden; but St. Mark 
Ruled here the ways that showed it like a dream 
Out of the dark. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



TO CATULLUS 

My brother, my Valerius, dearest head 
Of all whose crowning bay-leaves crown their mother, 
Rome, in the notes first heard of thine I read 
My brother. 

No dust that death or time can strew may smother 
Love and the sense of kinship inly bred 
From loves and hates at one with one another. 



To thee was Cassar's self nor dear nor dread, 
Song and the sea were sweeter each than other: 
How should I living fear to call thee dead 
My brother? 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



380 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

PAST DAYS 



Dead and gone, the days we had together, 
Shadow-stricken all the lights that shone 
Round them, flown as flies the blown-foam's feather, 
Dead and gone. 

Where we went, we twain, in time foregone, 
Forth by land and sea, and cared not whether, 
If 1 go again, I go alone. 

Bound am I with time as with a tether,- 
Thee perchance death leads enfranchised on. 
Far from deathlike life and changeful weather, 
Dead and gone. 



Above the sea and sea-washed town we dwelt. 
We twain together, two brief summers, free 
From heed of hours as light as clouds that melt 
Above the sea. 

Free from all heed of aught at all were we, 

Save chance of change that clouds or sunbeams dealt 

And gleam of heaven to windward or to lee. 

The Norman downs with bright gray waves for belt 
Were more for us than inland ways might be; 
A clearer sense of nearer heaven was felt 
Above the sea. 



Cliff's and downs and headlands which the forward-hasting 
Flight of dawn and eve empurples and embrowns. 
Wings of wild sea-winds and stormy seasons wasting 
CliflTs and downs, 



ROUNDELS 381 

These, or ever man was, were: the same sky frowns, 
Laughs, and lightens, as before his soul, forecasting 
Times to be, conceived such hopes as time discrowns. 

These we loved of old: but now for me the blasting 
Breath of death makes dull the bright small seaward towns. 
Clothes with human change these all but everlasting 
Cliffs and downs. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



TWO PRELUDES 



Lohengrin 

Love, out of the depth of things, 
As a dewfall felt from above, 
From the heaven whence only springs 
Love — 

Love, heard from the heights thereof, 
The clouds and the watersprings. 
Draws close as the clouds remove. 

And the soul in it speaks and sings, 
A swan sweet-souled as a dove, 
An echo that only rings 
Love. 

II 

Tristan und Isolde 

Fate out of the deep sea's gloom, 
When a man's heart's pride grows great. 
And nought seems now to foredoom 
Fate, 



382 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Fate, laden with fears m wait, 

Draws close through the clouds that loom, 

Till the soul see, all too late. 

More dark than a dead world's tomb, 
■ More high than the sheer dawn's gate. 
More deep than the wide sea's womb. 
Fate. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



A ROUNDEL 

(1915) 

A year ago were love and mirth 

And Youth's gay, careless flow; 
For him flamed Life in all its ardent worth, 
A year ago. 

Love came with her enchanting glow, 

And doubly blessed his happy birth; 
Yet those the gods love — Well, we know! 

Beneath a nameless mound of earth 

He lies, where daisies grow, 
Leaving a void in hearts that knew no dearth 
A year ago. 

Arthur Comfton-Rickett 

BETWEEN THE SHOWERS 

Between the showers I went my way. 

The glistening street was bright with flowers; 
It seemed that March had turned to May. 
Between the showers. 

Above the shining roofs and towers 

The blue broke forth athwart the grey; 
Birds carolled in their leafless bowers, 



ROUNDELS 383 

Hither and thither, swift and gay, 

The people chased the changeful hours; 
And you, you passed and smiled that day, 
Between the showers. 

Amy Levy 



STRAW IN THE STREET 

Straw in the street where I pass to-day 
Dulls the sound of the wheels and feet. 
'Tis for a failing life they lay 

Straw in the street. 

Here, where the pulses of London beat, 
Someone strives with the Presence grey, 
Ah, is it victory or defeat? 

The hurrying people go their way, 
Pause and jostle and pass and greet; 
For life, for death, are they treading, say, 
Straw in fhe street? 

Amy Levy 



A ROUNDEL OF REST 

If rest is sweet at shut of day 

For tired hands and tired feet, 
How sweet at last to rest for aye. 
If rest is sweet! 

We work or work not through the heat: 

Death bids us soon our labours lay 
In lands where night and twilight meet. 

When the last dawns are fallen on grey 
And all life's toils and ease complete, 
They know who work, not they who play, 
If rest is sweet. 

Arthur Symons 



384 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



MORS ET VITA 

We know not yet what life shall be, 

What shore beyond earth's shore be set; 
.What grief awaits us, or what glee, 
We know not yet. 

Still, somewhere in sweet converse met, 
Old friends, we say, beyond death's sea 
Shall meet and greet us, nor forget 

Those days of yore, those years when we 

Were loved and true, — but will death let 
Our eyes the longed-for vision see? 
We know not yet. 

Samuel Waddington 



THE POET'S PRAYER 

To buy my book — if you will be so kind — 

Is all I ask of you; and not to look 
What fruit lies hid beneath the azure rind: 
To buy my book. 

This for her hymn-book Rosalind mistook. 

When worshipping with yokel, maid, and hind; 
Ne^ra read it in a flowery nook. 

And gave her loose curls to the wanton wind. 
For this her grammar Syhia once forsook, 
Of you I only ask — you will not mind? — 
To buy my book. 

J, K. Stefhen 



RONDEAUX REDOUBLES 



■s 



THE PRAYER OF DRYOPE 
(Rondeau Redouble) 

goddess sweet, give ear unto my prayer. 
Come with thy doves across the briny sea, 

Leave thy tall fanes and thy rose gardens rare, 
From cruel bondage set thy vot'ress free! 

Ah, how my heart would joy again to be 

Like chirming bird that cleaves the sunny air, 

Like wildwood roe that bounds in ecstasy; 
O goddess sweet, give ear unto my prayer! 

That I am innocent hast thou no care 

Of crime against celestial deity? 
Must I the fate of lovely Lotis share? — 

Come with thy doves across the briny sea! 

1 hear no waters' silvern melody. 

And yet the rippling water once was there, 
And on its bloomy banks I worshipped thee; — 
Leave thy tall fanes and thy rose gardens rare! 



Could I but feel my boy's hands on my hair. 
Could I but kiss my sister lole, 

Then bravely would I cast forth chill despair, 

From cruel bondage set thy vot'ress free! 

387 



388 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

I, who was once the blithesome Dryope, 

Am now a tree bole, cold and brown and barej 
Pity, I pray, my ceaseless agony. 

Or grant forgetfulness of all things fair, 
O goddess sweet. 

Clinton Scollard 

RONDEAU REDOUBLE 

I will go hence, and seek her, my old Love; 

All bramble-laced, and moss-grown is the way, 
There is no sun, nor broad, red moon above, 

The year is old, he said, and skies are grey. 

The rose-wreaths fade, the viols are not gay, 

That which seemed sweet doth passing bitter prove; 

So sweet she was, she will not say me nay — 
I will go hence and seek her, my old Love. 

Low, labouring sighs stirred coldly through the grove, 
Where buds unblossomed on the mosses lay; 

His upa .ised hands the dusky tangle clove, 

"All bramble-laced and moss-grown is the way!" 

With grievous eyes, and lips that smiled alway, 

Strange, flitting shapes, wreathed round him as he 
strove 

Their spectral arms, and filmy green array; 

There was no sun, no broad red moon above. 

Here lies her lute — and here her slender glove; 

(Her bower well won, sweet joy shall crown the day) ; 
But her he saw not, vanished was his Love. 

The year is old, he said, and skies are grey. 

The wrong was mine! he cried. I left my dove 
(He flung him down upon the weeping clay). 
And now I find her flown — ah, wellaway! 
The house is desolate that held my Love, 
I will go hence. 

Graham R. Tomson 



RONDEAUX REDOUBLES 389 



A DAUGHTER OF THE NORTH 

WAo wins my ha?id must do these three things well: 
Skate fast as winter wind across the glare; 

Swi7n through the fiord, fast breaker, rif and swell ; 
Ride like the Storm fiend on my sfiow-white mare! 

Shall a maid do what Viking may not dare? 

I wed no lover I can aught excel — 
Skate, swim and ride with me, and I declare, 

Who wins my hand must do these three things well! 

Bind on your skate?, and after me pell-mell; 

Follow me, Carles, and catch my streaming hair! 
(Keep the black ice — O Bolstrom, if you fell!) 

Skate fast as winter wind across the glare! 

Thrice have I swum from this grey cliff to where 

On the far side, the angry surges yell; 
(Into the surf! O Bolstrom, have a care!) 

Swi7?i through the fiord , fast breaker, rif and swell! 

Bring out my Frieda, none but I can quell; 

(Watch her eye, Bolstrom, when you mount — beware!) 
Ride bareback now and find the master-spell; 

Ride like the Storm Fiend on m,y snow-white mare! 

Skohl! Vikings, Skohl! Am I not bold and fair? 

Who would not barter Heaven, and venture Hell, 
Striving the flower of my love to wear? 

(Mind my words, Bolstrom, hark to what I tell!) 
Who wins my hand? 

Gelett Burgess 

RONDEAU REDOUBLE 

My day and night are in my lady's hand; 
I have no other sunrise than her sight; 

For me her favour glorifies the land; 
Her anger darkens all the cheerful light. 



390 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white, 
When all a-flower in May the hedgerows stand; 

While she is kind, I know of no affright; 
My day and night are in my lady's hand. 

All heaven in her glorious eyes is spanned; 
Her smile is softer than the summer's night. 

Gladder than daybreak on the Faery strand; 
I have no other sunrise than her sight. 

Her silver speech is like the singing flight 
Of runnels rippling o'er the jewelled sand; 

Her kiss a dream of delicate delight; 
For me her favour glorifies the land. 

What if the Winter chase the Summer bland! 
The gold sun in her hair burns ever bright. 

If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned; 
Her anger darkens all the cheerful light. 

Come weal or woe, I am my lady's knight 
And in her service every ill withstand; 

Love is my Lord in all the world's despite 
And holdeth in the hollow of his hand 

My day and night. 

JoAn Payne 



RONDEAU REDOUBLE 

My soul is sick of nightingale and rose, 
The perfume and the darkness of the grove; 

I weary of the fevers and the throes, 
And all the enervating dreams of love. 

At morn I love to hear the lark, and rove 
The meadows, where the simple daisy shows 

Her guiltless bosom to the skies above — 
My soul is sick of nightingale and rose. 



RONDEAUX REDOUBLES 391 

The afternoon is sweet, and sweet repose, 
But let me lie where breeze-blown branches move. 

I hate the stillness where the sunbeams doze. 
The perfume and the darkness of the grove. 

I love to hear at eve the gentle dove 
Contented coo the day's delightful close. 

She sings of love and all the calm thereof, — 
I weary of the fevers and the throes. 

I love the night, who like a mother throws 
Her arms round hearts that throbbed and limbs 
that strove, 

As kind as Death, that puts an end to woes 
And all the enervating dreams of love. 

Because my soul is sick of fancies wove 
Of fervid ecstasies and crimson glows; 

Because the taste of cinnamon and clove 
Palls on my palate^ — let no man suppose 
My soul is sick. 

Cosmo Monkhouse 



A COMPLACENT RONDEAU REDOUBLE 

Musis amicus tristitiam et metus 

tradam protervis in mare. — Horace. Book I: Ode 26 

The Muses love me, and I am, content, 
For naught to me is either grief or fear; 

The winds will sweef them into banishmen , 
The sea will drag them to a briny bier. 

Let others quail and, trembling, force the tear. 
And cringe, with looks that on the ground are bent; 

Let all the angry powers of earth appear. 
The Muses love m,e — and I am content. 



392- LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

What though the days of joy are only lent, 
What though the skies are overcast and drear; 

I care not if the thundering heavens be rent, 
For naught to me is either grief or fear. 

Come, then, bright-hearted nymph from brooklets clear, 
A garland for my Lamia weave; nor vent 

Thy proud disdain upon my verses here — 

The winds will sweef them into banishniettt. 

O, come, with perfumed words from Venus sent 
And twiiie a golden couplet for our cheer. 

(Mind not the cares that mar our merriment; 
The sea will drag them to a briny bier). 

Attune my strings and so, for many a year, 

Singing of thee I will be diligent; 
And even when the leaves of life are sere, 

One thought will cheer me when all else is spent: 
The Muses love me. 

Louis Untermeyer 



TRIOLETS 



x 



TRIOLET 

Easy is the Triolet, 

If you really learn to make it! 
Once a neat refrain you get, 
Easy is the Triolet. 
As you see! — I pay my debt 

With another rhyme. Deuce take it. 
Easy is the Triolet, 

If you really learn to make it! 

W. E. Henley 

THE TRIOLET 

Your triolet should glimmer 

Like a butterfly; 
In golden light, or dimmer. 
Your triolet should glimmer. 
Tremble, turn, and shimmer, 

Flash, and flutter by; 
Your triolet should glimmer 

Like a butterfly. 

Don Marquis 

A PITCHER OF MIGNONETTE * 

A pitcher of mignonette 

In a tenement's highest casement, — 

Queer sort of flower-pot — yet 

That pitcher of mignonette 

Is a garden in heaven set, 

To the little sick child in the basement — 

The pitcher of mignonette. 

In a tenement's highest casement. 

Henry Cuyler Bunner 

* From T/te Poems of H. C. Bunner. Copyright 1917 by 
Charles Scribner's Sons, Publishers. 

395 



396 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

A SNOWFLAKE IN MAY 

( Triolet) 

•.. I saw a snowflake in the air 

When smiling May had decked the year, 
And then 'twas gone, I knew not where, — 
I saw a snowflake in the air. 
And thought perchance an angel's prayer 

Had fallen from some starry sphere; 
I saw a snowflake in the air 

When smiling May had decked the year, 
Clinton Scollard 

AUGUST? : 

Hottest day of the year 

Now, isn't it hot? 

There is really no breathing 
In the devil's own pot. 
Now, isn't it hot? 
A true Hottentot 

Would confess he was seething 
In a city so hot. 

There is really no breathing! 
Erander Matthews 

LES ROSES MORTES 

The roses are dead. 

And swallows are flying: 

White, golden, and red. 

The roses are dead; 

Yet tenderly tread 

Where their petals are lying: 

The roses are dead. 

And swallows are flying. 

Graha7fi R. Tomson 



TRIOLETS 397 



MISTLETOE AND HOLLY 

The mistletoe is gemmed with pearls, 

Red berries hath the holly. 
Remember, all ye modest girls, 
The mistletoe is gemmed with pearls, 
And when it hangs above your curls, 

Away with melancholy! 
The mistletoe is gemmed with pearls, 
Red berries hath the holly. 



Since mistletoe is hard to find, 
We do not need it, Mollie. 

Oh! do, I beg of you, be kind; 

Since mistletoe is hard to find. 

Pretend that you are color-blind 
And kiss beneath the holly. 

Since mistletoe is hard to find, 
We do not need it, Mollie. 

T. A. Daly 



ROSE-LEAVES 

"Sans feser. — Sans restcr: 



Rose kissed me to-day. 

Will she kiss me to-morrow? 
Let it be as it may, 
Rose kissed me to-day. 
But the pleasure gives way 

To a savour of sorrow; — 
Rose kissed me to-day, — 

Will she kiss me to-morrow? 



398 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



In the School of Coquettes 
Madam Rose is a scholar: — 

O, they fish with all nets 

In the School of Coquettes! 

When her brooch she forgets 
'Tis to show her new collar; 

In the School of Coquettes 
Madam Rose is a scholar! 



■V, 



There's a tear in her eye, — 
Such a clear little jewel! 

What can make her cry? 

There's a tear in her eye. 

"Puck has killed a big fly, — 
And it's horribly cruel;" 

There's a tear in her eye, — 
Such a clear little jewel! 

A GREEK GIFT 

Here's a present for Rose, 
How pleased she is looking! 

Is it verse? — is it prose? 

Here's a present for Rose! 

''Plats,'' ''Entrees,'' and "Rots,"— 
Why, it's "Goufl^e on Cooking"! 

Here's a present for Rose, 
Hozv pleased she is looking! 

"URCEUS exit" 

I intended an Ode, 

And it turned to a Sonnet. 
It began a la mode, 
I intended an Ode; 



TRIOLETS 399 

But Rose crossed the road 

In her latest new bonnet; 
I intended an Ode; 

And it turned to a Sonnet. 

Austin Dob son 

UNDER THE ROSE 

HE (aside) 

If I should steal a little kiss, 

Oh, would she weep, I wonder? 
I tremble at the thought of bliss, — 
If I should steal a little kiss! 
Such pouting lips would never miss 

The dainty bit of plunder; 
If I should steal a little kiss, 

Oh, would she weep, I wonder? 

SHE (aside) 

He longs to steal a kiss of mine — 

He may, if he'll return it: 
If I can read the tender sign, 
He longs to steal a kiss of mine; 
"In love and war" — you know the line 

Why cannot he discern it? 
He longs to steal a kiss of mine — 

He may if he'll return it. 

BOTH (fiz'e minutes later) 

A little kiss when no one sees. 

Where is the impropriety? 
How sweet amid the birds and bees 
A little kiss when no one sees! 
Nor is it wrong, the world agrees. 

If taken with sobriety. 
A little kiss when no one sees, 

Where is the impropriety? 

Samuel Minturn Peck 



400 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



A ROSE 



'Twas a Jacqueminot rose 

That she gave me at parting; 

Sweetest flower that blows, 

'Twas a Jacqueminot rose. 

In the love garden close, 

With the swift blushes starting, 

'Twas a Jacqueminot rose 
That she gave me at parting. 

If she kissed it, who knows — 
Since I will not discover, 

And love is that close, 

If she kissed it, who knows? 

Or if not the red rose 
Perhaps then the lover! 

If she kissed it, who knows, 
Since I will not discover. 

Yet at least with the rose 
Went a kiss that I'm wearing! 

More I will not disclose. 

Yet at least with the rose 

Went whose kiss no one knows, — 
Since I'm only declaring, 

"Yet at least with the rose 
Went a kiss that I'm wearing." 

Arlo Bates 



IN EXPLANATION 

Her lips were so neai 

That — what else could I do? 
You'll be angry, I fear. 
But her lips were so near — 



TRIOLETS 401 

Well, I can't make it clear, 

Or explain it to you. 
But — her lips were so near 

That — what else could I do? 

Walter Learned 

TWO TRIOLETS 



(What He Said) 

This kiss upon your fan I press. 

Ah! Saint Nitouche, you don't refuse it. 
And may it from its soft recess, 
This kiss upon your fan I press, 
Be blown to you a shy caress 

By this white down whene'er you use it; 
This kiss upon your fan I press, 

Ah! Saint Nitouche, you don't refuse it. 



(What She Thought) 

To kiss a fan! 

What a poky poet! 
The stupid man 
To kiss a fan. 
When he knows that — he — can. 

Or ought to know it. 
To kiss a fan! 

What a poky poet! 

Harrison Robertson 

APOLOGY 

Perhaps I made a slight mistake; 

At least I meant to kiss the rose. 
But as we skimmed the frozen lake 
I may have made a slight mistake. 



402 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

She wore the rose, and — goodness' sake! 

How like they were! So I suppose 
I may have made a slight mistake; 

At least 1 meant to kiss the rose. 

Arthur Guiterman 

'""^- PARABLE 

What is it makes it a Hat? 

Many things added together. 
(Women are also like that.) 
What is it makes it a Hat? 
Neither the felt nor the plat. 

Neither the form nor the feather. 
What is it makes it a Hat? 

Many things added together. 

Arthur Guiterman 

TRIOLET 

All women born are so perverse 

No man need boast their love possessing. 

If nought seem better, nothing's worse: 

All women born are so perverse. 

From Adam's wife, that proved a curse 

Though God had made her for a blessing, 

All women born are so perverse 

No man need boast their love possessing. 

Robert Bridges 

TRIOLET 

When first we met we did not guess 
That Love would prove so hard a master; 
Of more than common friendliness 
When first we met we did not guess. 
Who could foretell this sore distress. 
This irretrievable disaster 
When first we met? — We did not guess 
That Love would prove so hard a master. 

Robert Bridges 



TRIOLETS 403 



THISTLE-DOWN * 

Thistle-down is a woman's love, — 

Thistle-down with the wind at play. 
Let him who wills this truth to prove, 

'Thistle-down is a woman's love,' 
Seek her innermost heart to move. 

Though the wind should blow her vows this way, 
Thistle-down is a woman's love, — 

Thistle-down with the wind at play. 

Louise Chandler Moulton 



BLIND LOVE 

Love hath wept till he is blind, 
Lovers, guide him on his way; 

Though he be of fickle mind, 

Love hath wept till he is blind. 

Once ye knew him fair and kind; 
Now, alas and well-a-day! 

Love hath wept till he is blind — 
Lovers, guide him on his way! 

Graham R. Tomson 



OF HIMSELF 

A poor cicala, piping shrill, 

I may not ape the Nightingale; 

I sit upon the sun-browned hill, 

A poor cicala, piping shrill. 

When summer noon is warm and still, 
Content to chirp my homely tale; 

A poor cicala, piping shrill, 
I may not ape the Nightingale. 

Graham R. Tomson 

* From Poems and Sonnets by Louise Chandler Moulton. 
Copyright 1909, Little, Brown & Company, Publishers. 



+04 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

TRIOLET, AFTER CATULLUS 

"Jucundum, mea vita." 

Happy, my Life, the love you proffer, 

Eternal as the gods above; 
With such a wealth within my coffer, 
Happy my life. The love you proffer, — 
If your true heart sustains the offer, — 

Will prove the Koh-i-noor of love; 
Happy my life! The love you proffer, 

Eternal as the gods above! 

Edmund Gossff 

"PERSICOS ODI" 

Davus, I detest 

Orient display; 
Wreaths on linden drest, 
Davus, I detest. 
Let the late rose rest 

Where it fades away:—* 
Davus, I detest 

Orient display. 

Naught but myrtle twine 
Therefore, Boy, for me 

Sitting 'neath the vine, — 

Naught but myrtle twine; 

Fitting to the wine. 
Not unfitting thee; 

Naught but myrtle twine 
Therefore, Boy, for me. 

Austin Dob son 

TRIOLETS AFTER MOSCHUS 

Ami ToL nakaxdi- f^Ev £7rdv Kara kuttov bTiUvra' 
varepov av Cokwti Kai elg erog a2.Xo <j)vovti 
a/J.fj.€C 6' oi fieydTiOt Koi Kaprepol, oi ao(j)ol avdpeg 
dnKOTE npara ddvu/ieg, avaKooi iv x^ovl noiTia 
Evdofieg ev /xdXa uaKpbv drepfiova vyypeTov vnvov. 



TRIOLETS 405 

Alas, for us no second spring, 

Like mallows in the garden-bed. 
For these the grave has lost his sting, 
Alas, for us no second spring, 
Who sleep without awakening. 

And, dead, for ever more are dead, 
Alas, for us no second spring. 

Like mallows in the garden-bed! 

Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave. 

That boast themselves the sons of men! 

Once they go down into the grave — 

Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave, — 

They perish and have none to save, 

They are sown, and are not raised again; 

Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave. 
That boast themselves the sons of men! 

Andrew Lang 

THE SHELLEY MEMORIAL 
(The Master's Sfeech) 

The Rebel of eighty years ago 

L the Hero of to-day. 
In this memorial none will know 
The Rebel of eighty years ago. 
We Oxford Dons, however slow, 

Are now at last compelled to say 
"The Rebel of eighty years ago 

Is the Hero of to-day." 

Ernest Radford 

TRIOLET OF THE BIBLIOPHILE 

Be it mine to peruse 

Old prints and editions; 
Books our fathers might use 
Be it mine to peruse. 



406 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Let others hunt news 

And go mad about missions:— 

Be it mine to peruse 
Old prints and editions. 

Charles Sayle 

"■"V TRIOLET TO HER HUSBAND 

(F. Fertiault) 

Books rule thy mind, so let it be! 
Thy heart is mine, and mine alone. 
What more can I require of thee? 
Books rule thy mind, so let it be! 
Contented when thy bliss I see, 
I wish a world of books thine own. 
Books rule thy mind, so let it be! 
Thy heart is mine, and mine alone. 

Andrew Lang 

SIX TRIOLETS 

DEAR READER 

If you never write verses yourself. 
Dear reader, I leave it with you, 

You will grant a half-inch of your shelf, 

If you never write verses yourself. 

It was praised by some lenient elf. 
It was damned by a heavy review; 

If you never write verses yourself. 
Dear reader, I leave it with you. 

TRANSPONTINE 

Ices — Programmes — Lemonade ! 

'E thinks 'e's a Hirving, my eye! 
Why, Pussy, you're crying: afraid? 
Ices — Programmes — Lemonade ! 
It's the first time you've seen a piece played? 

It's pretty, but. Pussy, don't cry. 



TRIOLETS 407 



Ices — Programmes — Lemonade ! 
'E thinks 'e's a Hirving, my eye! 



OUT * 

I killed her? Ah, why do they cheer? 

Are those twenty years gone to-day? 
Why, she was my wife, sir, dear — so dear. 
I killed her? Ah, why do they cheer? 

. . . Ah, hound! He was shaking with fear, 
And I rushed — with a knife, they say. . . . 
I killed her? Ah, why do they cheer? 

Are those twenty years gone to-day? 



A HUPROAR 

Down 'Ob'n, sir? Circus, Bank, Bank! 

'Ere's a huproar, my bloomin', hoff side! 
A flower, miss? Ah, thankee, miss, thank — 
Down 'Ob'n, sir? Circus, Bank, Bank! 
'Igher up! 'Ullo, Bill, wot a prank! 

If that 'ere old carcase ain't shied! 
Down 'Ob'n, sir? Circus, Bank, Bank! 

'Ere's a huproar, my bloomin', hoff side! 



SPRING VOICES 

Fine Violets! fresh Violets! come buy! 

Ah, rich man! I would not be you. 
All spring-time it haunts me, that cry: — 
Fine Violets! fresh Violets! come buy! 
Whose loss if she tell me a lie? 

"They're starving; my God, sir, it's true." 
Fine Violets! fresh Violets! come buy! 

Ah, rich man! I would not be you! 

* V. Police Reports of the release of George Hall from Birm- 
ingham prison. 



408 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BETWEEN THE LINES 

Cigar lights! yer honour? Cigar lights? 

May God forget you in your need. 
Ay, damn you! if folks get their rights 
(Cigar lights! yer honour? — cigar lights) 
Their babies shan't starve in the nights 

For wanting the price of your weed — 
Cigar lights! yer honour? Cigar lights! 

May God forget you in your need! 

Ernest Radford 



SERENADE TRIOLET 

Why is the moon 

Awake when thou sleepest? 
To the nightingale's tune 
Why is the moon 
Making a noon 

When night is the deepest? 
Why is the moon 

Awake when thou sleepest? 

George Macdonald 



SONG 



I was very cold 

In the summer weather; 
The sun shone all his gold, 
But I was very cold — 
Alone, we were grown old, 

Love and I together! — 
Oh, but I was cold 

In the summer weather! 



TRIOLETS 409 



Sudden I grew warmer, 

When the brooks were frozen:— 
"To be angry is to harm her," 
I said, and straight grew warmer. 
"Better men, the charmer 

Knows at least a dozen!" — 
I said, and straight grew warmer. 

Though the brooks were frozen. 



Ill 



Spring sits on her nest — 

Daisies and white clover; 
And my heart at rest 
Lies in the spring's young nest: 
My love she loves me best, 

And the frost is over! 
Spring sits on her nest — 

Daisies and white clover! 

George Macdonald 



TRIOLET 

In the light, in the shade. 

This is time and life's measure: 

With a heart unafraid. 

In the light, in the shade, 

Hope is born and not made, 
And the heart finds its treasure 

In the light, in the shade; 

This is time and life's measure. 

Walter Crane 



410 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

VESTIGIA 



I saw her shadow on the grass 
*- That day we walked together. 
Across the field where the pond was 
I saw her shadow on the grass. 
And now I sigh and say, Alas! 

That e'er in summer weather 
I saw her shadow on the grass 

That day we walked together! 

II 

Hope bowed his head in sleep: 

Ah me and wellaway! 
Although I cannot weep, 
Hope bowed his head in sleep. 
The heavy hours creep: 

When is the break of day? 
Hope bowed his head in sleep, 

Ah me and wellaway! 



The sea on the beach 

Flung the foam of its ire. 
We watched without speech 
The sea on the beach, 
And we clung each to each 

As the tempest shrilled higher 
And the sea on the beach 

Flung the foam of its ire. 

IV 

When Love is once dead 
Who shall awake him? 



TRIOLETS 411 

Bitter our bread 

When Love is once dead 

His comforts are fled, 

His favours forsake him. 
When Love is once dead 

Who shall awake him? 



Love is a swallow 

Flitting with spring: 
Though we would follow. 
Love is a swallow, 
All his vows hollow: 

Then let us sing. 
Love is a swallow 

Flitting with spring. 

Arthur Symons 



TRIOLET 

Oh, that men would praise the Lord 

For his goodness unto men! 
Forth he sends his saving word, 

— Oh, that men would praise the Lord!- 
And from shades of death abhorred 

Lift them up to light again: 
Oh, that men would praise the Lord 

For his goodness unto men. 

George Macdonald 



SONG 

I make my shroud, but no one knows- 
So shimmering fine it is and fair, 
With stitches set in even rows, 
I make my shroud, but no one knows. 



412 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

In door-way where the lilac blows, 
Humming a little wandering air, 
I make my shroud and no one knows. 
So shimmering fine it is and fair, 

Adelaide Crafsey 



VILLANELLES 



v 



VILLANELLE 



Wouldst thou not be content to die 

When low-hung fruit is hardly clinging, 
And golden* Autumn passes by? 

Beneath this delicate rose-gray sky, 

While sunset bells are faintly ringing, 
Wouldst thou not be content to die? 

For wintry webs of mist on high 

Out of the muffled earth are springing, 
And golden Autumn passes by. 

O now when pleasures fade and fly, 

And Hope her southward flight is winging, 
Wouldst thou not be content to die? 

Lest Winter come, with wailing cry 

His cruel icy bondage bringing. 
When golden Autumn hath passed by. 

And thou, with many a tear and sigh. 

While life her wasted hands is wringing, 
Shalt pray in vain for leave to die 
When golden Autumn hath passed by. 

Edmund Gossg 



VILLANELLE 

Little mistress mine, good-bye! 

I have been your sparrow true; 
Dig my grave, for I must die. 

Waste no tear and heave no sigh; 

Life should still be blithe for you, 
Little mistress mine, good-bye! 
415 



416 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

In your garden let me lie, 

Underneath the pointed yew 
Dig my grave, for I must die. 

We have loved the quiet sky 
With its tender arch of blue; 
' "^ Little mistress mine, good-bye! 

That I still may feel you nigh, 

In your virgin bosom, too. 
Dig my grave, for I must die. 

Let our garden friends that fly 
Be the mourners, fit and few. 
Little mistress mine, good-bye! 
Dig my grave, for I must die. 

Edmund Gosse 

"A VOICE IN THE SCENTED NIGHT" 

(Villanelle at Verona) 

A voice in the scented night, — 

A step where the rose-trees blow, — 
O Love, and O Love's delight! 

Cold star at the blue vault's height, 

What Is It that shakes you so? 
A voice in the scented night! 

She comes in her beauty bright, — 

She comes in her young love's glow, — 
O Love, and O Love's delight! 

She bends from her casement white, 
And she hears it, hushed and low, 
A voice in the scented night. 

And he climbs by that stairway slight, — 

Her passionate Romeo: — 
O Love, and O Love's delight! 



VILLANELLES 417 

For It stirs us still in spite 

Of its "ever so long ago," 
That voice in the scented night, — 
O Love, and O Love's delight! 

Austin Dob son 



FOR A COPY OF THEOCRITUS 

O singer of the field and fold, 
Theocritus! Pan's pipe was thine, — 
Thine was the happier Age of Gold. 

For thee the scent of new-turned mould, 
The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine, 
O Singer of the field and fold! 

Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old, — 
The beechen bowl made glad with wine. . 
Thine was the happier Age of Gold. 

Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told, — 
Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine, 
O Singer of the field and fold! 

And round thee, ever-laughing, rolled 
The blithe and blue Sicilian brine. . . . 
Thine was the happier Age of Gold. 

Alas for us! Our songs are cold; 
Our Northern suns too sadly shine: — 
O Singer of the field and fold. 
Thine was the happier Age of Gold! 

Austin Dobson 



"WHEN I SAW YOU LAST, ROSE" 

When I saw you last. Rose, 
You were only so high; — 
How fast the time goes! 



418 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Like a bud ere it blows, 
You just peeped at the sky, 
When I saw you last. Rose! 

Now your petals unclose, 
Now your May-time is nigh; — 
"v How fast the time goes! 

And a life, — how it grows! 
You were scarcely so shy. 
When I saw you last, Rose! 

In your bosom it shows 
There's a guest on the sly; 
(How fast the time goes!) 

Is it Cupid? Who knows! 
Yet you used not to sigh, 
When I saw you last. Rose; — 
How fast the time goes! 

Austin Dob son 



ON A NANKIN PLATE 

"Ah me, but it might have been! 
Was there ever so dismal a fate?" — 
Quoth the little blue mandarin 

"Such a maid as was never seen! 
She passed, tho' I cried to her, 'Wait,'- 
Ah me, but it might have been! 

"I cried, 'O my Flower, my Queen, 
Be mine!' 'Twas precipitate," — 
Quoth the little blue mandarin, — 

"But then . . . she was just sixteen, — 
Long-eyed, — as a lily straight, — 
Ah me, but it might have been! 



VILLA NELLES 419 

"As it was, from her palankeen, 
She laughed — 'You're a week too late!'" 
(Quoth the little blue mandarin.) 

"That is why, in a mist of spleen, 
I mourn on this Nankin Plate. 
Ah me, but it might have been!" — 
Quoth the little blue mandarin. 

Austin Dob son 



VILLANELLE 

(To Lucia) 

Apollo left the golden Muse 

And shepherded a mortal's sheep, 
Theocritus of Syracuse! 

To mock the giant swain that woos 

The sea-nymph in the sunny deep, 
Apollo left the golden Muse. 

Afield he drove his lambs and ewes. 

Where Milon and where Battus reap, 
Theocritus of Syracuse! 

To watch thy tunny-fishers cruise 

Below the dim Sicilian steep 
Apollo left the Golden Muse! 

Ye twain did loiter in the dews. 

Ye slept the swain's unfever'd sleep, 
Theocritus of Syracuse! 

That Time might half with his confuse 

Thy songs, — like his, that laugh and leap,- 
Theocritus of Syracuse, 
Apollo left the Golden Muse! 

Andrew Lang 



420 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



VILLANELLE 

(To M. Josef A Boulmier, Author of 
''Les Villanelles,") 

"V Villanelle, why art thou mute? 

Hath the singer ceased to sing? 
Hath the Master lost his lute? 

Many a pipe and scrannel flute 

On the breeze their discords fling; 
Villanelle, why art tAou mute? 

Sound of tumult and dispute, 

Noise of war the echoes bring; 
Hath the Master lost his lute? 

Once he sang of bud and shoot 

In the season of the Spring; 

Villanelle, why art thou mute? 

Fading leaf and falling fruit 

Say, "The year is on the wing, 
Hath the Master lost his lute?" 

Ere the axe lie at the root, 

Ere the winter come as king, 
Villanelle, why art thou mute? 
Hath the Master lost his lute? 

Andrew Lang 

VILLANELLE 

A dainty thing's the Villanelle. 

Sly, musical, a jewel in rhyme. 
It serves its purpose passing well. 

A double-clappered silver bell 

That must be made to clink in chime, 
A dainty thing's the Villanelle; 



VILLANELLES 421 

And if you wish to flute a spell, 

Or ask a meeting 'neath the lime, 
It serves its purpose passing well. 

You must not ask of it the swell 

Of organs grandiose and sublime — 
A dainty thing's the Villanelle; 

And, filled with sweetness, as a shell 

Is filled with sound, and launched in time, 
It serves its purpose passing well. 

Still fair to see and good to smell 

As in the quaintness of its prime, 
A dainty thing's the Villanelle, 
It serves its purpose passing well. 

W. E. Henley. 



VILLANELLE 

In the clatter of the train 

Is a promise brisk and bright. 
I shall see my love again! 

I am tired and fagged and fain; 

But I feel a still delight 
In the clatter of the train. 

Hurry-hurrying on amain 

Through the moonshine thin and white — 
I shall see my love again ! 

Many noisy miles remain; 
But a sympathetic sprite 
In the clatter of the train 

Hammers cheerful: — that the strain 

Once concluded and the fight, 
I shall see my love again. 



422 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Yes, the overword is plain, — 
If it's trivial, if it's trite — 
In the clatter of the train: 
"I shall see my love again." 

W. E. Henley 

VILLANELLE OF MARGUERITES 

"A little, fassionately , not at all?" 
She casts the snowy petals on the air; 
And what care we how many petals fall? 

Nay, wherefore seek the seasons to forestall? 
It is but playing, and she will not care, 
A little, passionately, not at all! 

She would not answer us if we should call 
Across the years; her visions are too fair; 
And what care we how many petals fall! 

She knows us not, nor recks if she enthrall 
With voice and eyes and fashion of her hair, 
A little, passionately, not at all! 

Knee-deep she goes in meadow-grasses tall. 
Kissed by the daisies that her fingers tear; 
And what care we how many petals fall! 

We pass and go; but she shall not recall 
What men we were, nor all she made us bear; 
"A little, fassionately , not at all!" 
And what care we how many petals fall! 

Ernest Dozoson 



VILLANELLE OF ACHERON 

By the pale marge of Acheron 

Methinks we shall pass restfully. 
Beyond the scope of any sun. 



VILLANELLES 423 

There all men hie them one by one, 

Far from the stress of earth and sea, 
B7 the pale marge of Acheron. 

'Tis well when life and love is done, 

'Tis very well at last to be, 
Beyond the scope of any sun. 

No busy voices there shall stun 

Our ears: the stream flows silently 
By the pale marge of Acheron. 

There is the crown of labour won, 

The sleep of immortality. 
Beyond the scope of any sun. 

Life, of thy gifts I will have none. 

My Queen is that Persephone, 
By the pale marge of Acheron, 
Beyond the scope of any sun. 

Ernest Dowson 



VILLANELLE OF SUNSET 

Come hither, child! and rest: 

This is the end of day. 
Behold the weary West! 
Sleep rounds with equal zest 

Man's toil and children's play: 
Come hither, child! and rest. 
My white bird, seek thy nest. 

Thy drooping head down lay: 
Behold the weary West! 
Now are the flowers con f est 

Of slumber: sleep, as they! 
Come hither, child! and rest. 
Now eve is manifest. 

And homeward lies our way: 
Behold the weary West! 



+24 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Tired flower! upon my breast, 

I would wear thee, alway: 
Come hither, child! and rest; 
Behold, the weary West! 

Ernest Dow son 



VILLANELLE OF THE POET'S ROAD 

Wine and woman and song. 

Three things garnish our way: 
Yet is day over long. 

Lest we do our youth wrong, 

Gather them while we may: 
Wine and woman and song. 

Three things render us strong, 

Vine leaves, kisses and bay; 
Yet is day over long. 

Unto us they belong. 

Us the bitter and gay. 
Wine and woman and song. 

We, as we pass along, 

Are sad that they will not stay; 
Yet is day over long. 

Fruits and flowers among. 
What is better than they: 

Wine and woman and song? 
Yet is day over long, 

Ernest Dotvson 



VILLANELLE OF HIS LADY'S TREASURES 

I took her dainty eyes, as well 

As silken tendrils of her hair: 
And so I made a Villanelle! 



VILLANELLES 425 

I took her voice, a silver bell, 

As clear as song, as soft as prayer; 
I took her dainty eyes as well. 

"It may be," said I, "who can tell," 

"These things shall be my less despair?" 
And so I made a Villanelle! 

I took her whiteness virginal 

And from her cheek two roses rare: 
I took her dainty eyes as well. 

I said: "It may be possible 

Her image from my heart to tear!" 
And so I made a Villanelle. 

I stole her laugh, most musical: 

I wrought it in with artful care; 
I took her dainty eyes as well; 
And so I made a Villanelle. 

Ernest Dozvson 



PAN.— A VILLANELLE 

O Goat-foot God of Arcady! 

Cyllene's shrine is grey and old; 
This northern isle hath need of thee! 

No more the shepherd lads in glee 

Throw apples at thy wattled fold, 
O Goat-foot God of Arcady! 

Nor through the laurels can one see 

Thy soft brown limbs, thy head of gold: 
This northern isle hath need of thee! 

Then leave the tomb of Helice, 

Where nymph and faun lie dead and cold, 
O Goat-foot God of Arcady; 



426 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

For many an unsung elegy 

Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold: 
This northern isle hath need of thee. 

And thine our English Thames shall be, 

^ The open lawns, the upland wold, 
O Goat-foot God of Arcady, 

This northern isle hath need of thee! 

Oicar Wilde 



THEOCRITUS 

O Singer of Persephone! 

In the dim meadows desolate, 
Dost thou remember Sicily? 

Still through the ivy flits the bee 
Where Amaryllis lies in state j 
O Singer of Persephone! 

Sim.-etha calls on Hecate, 

And hears the wild dogs at the gate; 
Dost thou remember Sicily? 

Still by the light and laughing sea 

Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate; 
O Singer of Persephone! 

And still in boyish rivalry 

Young Daphnis challenges his mate; 
Dost thou remember Sicily? 

Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee; 

For thee the jocund shepherds wait; 
O Singer of Persephone! 
Dost thou remember Sicily? 

Oscar Wilde 



VILLANELLES 427 



VILLANELLE 



The air is white with snowflakes clinging; 
Between the gusts that come and go 
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. 

Methinks I see the primrose springing 
On many a bank and hedge, although 
The air is white with snowflakes clinging. 

Surely, the hands of Spring are flinging 
Wood-scents to all the winds that blow: 
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. 

Methinks I see the swallow winging 
Across the woodlands sad with snow; 
The air is white with snowflakes clinging. 

Was that the cuckoo's wood-chime swinging? 
Was that the linnet fluting low? 
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. 

Or can it be the breeze is bringing 
The breath of violets? Ah, no! 
The air is white with snowflakes clinging. 

It is my lady's voice that's stringing 
Its beads of gold to song; and so 
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. 

The violets I see upspringing 
Are in my lady's eyes, I trow: 
The air is white with snowflakes clinging. 

Dear, whilst thy tender tones are ringing, 
Even whilst amid the winter's woe 
The air is white with snowflakes clinging, 
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. 

JoAn Payne 



428 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



VILLANELLE 

The thrush's singing days are fled 
His heart is dumb for love and pain: 
The nightingale shall sing instead. 

Too long the wood-bird's heart hath bled 
With love and dole at every vein: 
The thrush's singing days are fled. 

The music in his breast is dead. 
His soul will never flower again: 
The nightingale shall sing instead. 

Love's rose has lost its early red, 
The golden year is on the wane; 
The thrush's singing days are fled. 

The years have beaten down his head, 
He's mute beneath the winter's rain: 
The nightingale shall sing instead. 

Hard use hath snapped the golden thread 
Of all his wild-wood songs in twain; 
The thrush's singing days are fled. 

His voice is dumb for drearihead: 
What matters it? In wood and lane 
The nightingale shall sing instead. 

Dear, weary not for what is sped. 
What if, for stress of heart and brain, 
The thrush's singing days are fled; 
The nightingale shall sing instead. 

JoAn Payne 



VILLANELLES 429 

TO HESPERUS 

(After Bion) 

jewel of the deep blue night, 
Too soon, to-day, the moon arose; 

1 pray thee, lend thy lovely light. 

Than any other star more bright 
An hundredfold thy beauty glows, 

jewel of the deep blue night. 

Too soon Selene gained the height, 
And now no more her glory shows; 

1 pray thee, lend (Ay lovely light. 

Anon our revel of delight 

Towards the shepherd's dwelling goes, 

jewel of the deep blue night! 

And I must lead the dance aright. 
Yea — even I — for me they chose: 

1 pray thee, lend thy lovely light. 

No thief am I, nor evil wight. 

Nor numbered with the traveller's foes, 

jewel of the deep blue night! 

None would I spoil, nor e'en affright; 
Mine are the Lover's joys and woes; 

1 pray thee, lend thy lovely light. 

For good it is, in all men's sight 

(Thou knowest well), to favour those, 
O jewel of the deep blue night! 

Thy golden lamp hath turned to white 
The silver of the olive-close; 

jewel of the deep blue night! 

1 pray thee, lend thy lovely light. 

Graham R. Tomson 



430 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



JEAN-FRANCOIS MILLET 

O Master of the Old and New! 

We speak thy name with bated breath; 
Thy waking years were all too few. 

With airs that erst in Athens blew 

Thy toil's full harvest murmureth, 
O Master of the Old and New! 

In misty pastures, dim with dew, 

Thy sad, strong spirit slumbereth; 
Thy waking years were all too few. 

The forms thy potent pencil drew 

On sunset light move strong as Death, 
O Master of the Old and New! 

The sowing seasons turn anew, 
And toiling man continueth; 
TAy waking years were all too few. 

Dark Orcus veils thee from our view 

On vast, low meadow-lands of Death, 
O Master of the Old and New. 

Now men their tardy laurels strew, 

And Fame, remorseful, sobbing saith, 
'O Master of the Old and New, 
Thy waking years were all too few!' 

Graham R. Tomson 



VILLANELLE TO THE DAFFODIL 

O daffodil, flower safi"ron-gowned, 

Eflfulgent with the Sun-god's gold, 
Thou bring'st the joyous season round! 



VILLANELLES 431 

While yet the earth is blanched and browned 

Thou dost thy amber leaves unfold, 
O daffodil, flower saffron-gowned. 

We see thee by yon mossy mound 

Wave from thy stalks each pennon bold, — 
Thou bring'st the joyous season round! 

Fair child of April, promise-crowned. 

We longed for thee when winds were cold, 
O daffodil, flower saffron-gowned. 

Again we hear the merry sound 

Of sweet birds singing love-songs old, — 
Thou bring'st the joyous season round! 

Again we feel our hearts rebound 

With pleasures by thy birth foretold, — 
O daffodil, flower saffron-gowned, 
Thou bring'st the joyous season round! 

Clinton Scollard 



■ VILLANELLE TO HELEN 

Man's very voice is stilled on Troas' shore. 
Sweet Xanthus and Simois both are mute, 
Thus have the gods ordained forevermore! 

Springs the rank weed where bloomed the rose before, 

Unplucked on Ida hangs the purple fruit, 
Man's very voice is stilled on Troas' shore. 

Where heavenly walls towered proud and high of yore. 

Unharmed now strays abroad the savage brute. 
Thus have the gods ordained forevermore! 

And they, the wronged, that wasting sorrow bore, 

Alas! their tree hath withered to the root, 
Man's very voice is stilled on Troas' shore. 



432 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

In Lacedsemon, loved of heroes hoar, 

No trumpet sounds, but piping shepherd's flute, 
Thus have the gods ordained f orevermore ! 

And thou, the cause, through Aphrodite's lore, 
Unblamed, art praised on poet's lyre and lute — 

Man's very voice is stilled on Troas' shore. 

Thu^ have the gods ordained f orevermore! 

Clinton Scollard 



LOVE, WHY SO LONG AWAY 

Love, why so long away 

Beyond the hollow seas? 
Return, return, I pray! 

Though skies be wild and gray, 
And rill and fountain freeze, 
Love, why so long away? 

Ah, wait not till the May 

Shall bring the birds and bees! 
Return, return, I pray! 

Weirdly chill night and day 

The winds sob in the trees; 
Love, why so long away? 

I seem to hear them say 

Across snow-drifted leas, 
"Return, return, I pray!" 

And ever, sad as they, 

Calls echo down the breeze, 
"Return, — return, — I — fray /" 
Love, why so long away? 

Clinton Scollard 



VILLANELLES 433 



A VILLANELLE OF LOVE 

Ask not if Love no Passion knows, 
Since kissing thee, I did desire 
To hold thee like a flaming rose. 

How should I reason well when glows 
My memory of thee as a fire? 
Ask not if Love no passion knows. 

What wouldst thou then? that Love should close 
His eager wings that would come nigher 
To hold thee like a flaming rose? 

When beauty from thy gaze yet flows 
Like wind across my heart, a lyre. 
Ask not if Love no passion knows. 

That deep soft double flower that grows 
Upon thy breast doth Love inspire 
To hold thee like a flaming rose. 

Is Love then less when Passion shows 
Him how most sweetly to desire? 
Ask not if Love no passion knows 
To hold thee like a flaming rose! 

R. L. Megroz 



VILLANELLE 
/ 
O fleet of foot as Artemis, 
With silvern wings upon thy feet, 
Why dost thou flee from lover's kiss? 

Hast thou no other gift than this. 

The slow sweet smile wherewith to greet, 

O fleet of foot as Artemis? 



434- LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

And slim, cool fingers to dismiss 
With farewell touch serene, discreet? 
Why dost thou flee from lover's kiss? 

E'en Dian (old the fancy is) 
Once found a mortal's kisses sweet, 
O fleet of foot as Artemis! 

And stooped to taste of human bliss. 
If she could leave her cloudy seat, 
Why dost thou flee from lover's kiss? 

Know'st thou not truth from artifice? 
Ah! read my eyes when next we meet! 
O fleet of foot as Artemis, 
Why dost thou flee from lover's kiss? 

Gareth Marsh Stanton 

AT A BRETON SEA-BLESSING 

(Breton Villanelle) 

Oh, gentle Lady of God's sea. 

Lest faithless souls fear Saints asleep, 
Bless sorrow-laden Brittany! 

God's sea is full-fed; hungry we. 

Whose nets drag empty thro' the deep, 
Oh, gentle Lady of God's sea! 

God's sea is full-fed; hear the plea 

From starving flesh and blood so cheap: 
"Bless sorrow-laden Brittany!" 

God's sea is hungry; agony 

Shrills thro' the wind as widows weep, 
Oh, gentle Lady of God's sea! 

God's sea is hungry; hauntingly 

The children's wailings heav'nward sweep: 
"Bless sorrow-laden Brittany!" 



VILLANELLES 435 

Hope, O Help, we kneel to thee 
When wrecking breakers boom and leap: 

"Oh, gentle Lady of God's sea, 
Bless sorrow-laden Brittany!" 

Margaret Lovell Andrews 

VILLANELLE 

Last night in Memory's boughs aswing, 
When none but I had heart to hear, 
A wee brown mavis tried to sing. 

But, ah! the wild notes would not ring 
As once they rang — so loud and clear! 
Last night in Memory's boughs aswing. 

1 saw the rowan-clusters cling. 

And far away and yet so near 
A wee brown mavis tried to sing. 

Almost I found a long-lost Spring, 

Almost the loves I held so dear. 
Last night in Memory's boughs aswing 

For joys that had their blossoming 

Beyond the grief of each gray year 
A wee brown mavis tried to sing; 

But the dew wrapped him, glistening. 

And every dew-drop told a tear 
Last night in Memory's boughs aswing. 

While, throbbing heart and dropping wing, 

And chill claws grasping at his bier, 
A wee brown mavis tried to sing. 

But I shall know when hailstorms sting. 
And not forget when leaves are sere. 
Last night in Memory's boughs aswing 
A wee brown mavis tried to sing. 

Will H. Ogilvie 



436 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



WHEN THE BROW OF JUNE 

When the brow of June is crowned by the rose 
And the air is fain and faint with her breath, 
Then the Earth hath rest from her long birth-throes; — 

The Earth hath rest and forgetteth her woes 

As she watcheth the cradle of Love and Death, 
When the brow of June is crowned by the rose. 

^ Love and Death who are counted for foes, 

She sees you twins of one mind and faith — 
The Earth at rest from her long birth-throes. 

You are twins to the mother who sees and knows; 

(Let them strive and thrive together) she saith — 
When the brow of June is crowned by the rose. 

They strive, and Love his brother outgrows. 

But for strength and beauty he travaileth 
On the Earth at rest from her long birth-throes 

And still when his passionate heart o'erflows. 
Death winds about him a bridal wreath — 
As the brow of June is crowned by the rose! 

So the bands of death true lovers enclose. 

For Love and Death are as Sword and Sheath 
When the Earth hath rest from her long birth-throes. 

They are Sword and Sheath, they are Life and its Shows 

Which lovers have grace to see beneath. 
When the brow of June is crowned by the rose 
And the Earth hath rest from her long birth-throes. 

Emily Pfeiffer 



VILLANELLES 437 



ACROSS THE WORLD I SPEAK TO THEE 

Across the world I speak to thee; 

Where'er thou art (I know not where). 
Send thou a messenger to me! 

I here remain, who would be free, 

To seek thee out through foul or fair, 
Across the world I speak to thee. 

Whether beneath the tropic tree. 

The cooling night wind fans thy hair, — 
Send thou a messenger to me! 

Whether upon the rushing sea, 

A foamy track thy keel doth wear, — 
Across the world I speak to thee. 

Whether in yonder star thou be, 
A spirit loosed in purple air, — 
Send thou a messenger to me! 

Hath Heaven not left thee memory 

Of what was well in mortal's share? 
Across the world I speak to thee; 
Send thou a messenger to me! 

Edith M. Thomas 



THE HOUSE ON THE HILL* 

They are all gone away; 

The House is shut and still, 
There is nothing more to say. 

♦From The Children of the Night. Copyright 1896-1897 
by Edwin Arlington Robinson. Published by Charles Scribner's 
Sons. 



438 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Through broken walls and gray 

The winds blow bleak and shrill: 
They are all gone away. 

Nor is there one to-day 

To speak them good or ill: 
' There is nothing more to say. 

Why is it then we stray 

Around that sunken sill? 
They are all gone away, 

And our poor fancy-play 

For them is wasted skill: 
There is nothing more to say. 

There is ruin and decay 

In the House on the Hill: 
They are all gone away, 
There is nothing more to say. 

Edwin Arlington Robinson 



MY DEAD DOGS 

(Villanelle) 

Dear, faithful beasts who went before — 
Who iwam Death's river undismayed— 
I'll find them on the further shore! 

When Charon grimly rows me o'er 

Vixen will bark and Jack who stayed- 
Dear, faithful beasts who went before! 

Rover will gambol more and more. 

And Roy, the shy, be unafraid, — 
I'll find them on the further shore! 

Sweet Clyde again shall guard my door, 

And Wasp be near my footstool laid,— 
Dear, faithful beasts who went before! 



VILLANELLES 439 

Death shall their precious love restore, 

Their emerald eyes will light the Shade; 
I'll find them on the further shore! 

For ever, then, shall they outpour 
Affection which can never fade; 
Dear, faithful beasts who went before, — 
I'll find them on the further shore! 

Rowland Thirlmere 



VILLANELLE OF CITY AND COUNTRY 

Beneath the arches of the leaves I lie. 

And watch the Lovers wander — Song and Spring- 
But oh, the towers set in Gotham's sky! 

A great triangle shaft uplifts on high 

Its columned shrine wherein the presses sing; 
Beneath the arches of the leaves I lie. 

With flocks of clouds the Shepherd-wind goes by, 
White poppies 'mid the waving grasses swing — 
But oh, the towers set in Gotham's sky! 

As to a fairy castle we draw nigh 

When home the ferries bear us, marvelling; 
Beneath the arches of the leaves I lie. 

Across the empty fields the trumpets die 

That meadow larks unto the morning fling — 
But oh, the towers set in Gotham's sky! 

Far off I hear the city's aching cry. 

Where Life and^ Death are Lovers, wandering; 
Beneath the arches of the leaves I lie, 
But oh, the towers set in Gotham's sky! 

2.06 A kins 



440 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

LUGUBRIOUS VILLANELLE OF PLATITUDES 

Eheu fugaces, Postume. — Horace. Book II: Ode 14 

Ah, Postumus, my Postumus, the years are slipping by; 

Old age "with hurrying footsteps draws nearer day by day; 
And we will leave this friendly earth and every friendlier 
tie. 

Soon Death, whose strength is never spent, whose sword is 
always high, 
Will beckon us, and all our faith will win us no delay. 
Ah, Postumus, my Postumus, the years are slipping by. 

Grim Pluto waits for all of us; he waits with pitiless eye, 
Until we journey down the stream that carries us away; 
And we will leave this friendly earth and every friendlier 
tie. 

Though we be kings or worse than slaves, the eager moments 

fly; 
Though we be purer than the gods, Time will not halt or 

stay — 
Ah, Postumus, my Postumus, the years are slipping by. 

Aye, we must go, though we have shunned the red sun of 
July, 

The bitter winds, the treacherous surf, the blind and sav- 
age fray. 
And we will leave this friendly earth and every friendlier 
tie. 

Too soon the stubborn hand of Fate tears all our dreams 
awry; 
Too soon the plowman quits his plow, the child his happy 
play— 
A A, Postumus, my Postumus, the years are sliffing by, 
And we will leave this friendly earth and every friendlier 
tie. 

Louis Untermeyer 



VILLANELLES 441 



VILLANELLE, WITH STEVENSON'S ASSISTANCE 

The world is so full of a number of things 

Like music and pictures and statues and plays, 
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings. 

We've winters and summers and autumns and springs, 

We've Aprils and Augusts, Octobers and Mays — 
The world is so full of a number of things. 

Though minor the key of my lyrical strings, 
I change it to major when pasaning praise: 
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings. 

Each morning a myriad wonderments brings. 

Each evening a myriad marvels conveys. 
The world is so full of a number of things. 

With pansies and roses and pendants and rings. 

With purples and yellows and scarlets and grays, 
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings. 

So pardon a bard if he carelessly sings 

A solo indorsing these Beautiful Days — 
The world is so full of a number of things, 
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings. 

Franklin P. Adams 



•V 



SESTINAS 



v 



SESTINA 

Fra tutti il primo Arnaldo Daniello 
Gran maestro d'amor. — Petrarch. 

In fair Provence, the land of lute and rose, 
Arnaut, great master of the lore of love. 
First wrought sestines to win his lady's heart, 
Since she was deaf when simpler staves he sang. 
And for her sake he broke the bonds of rhyme, 
And in this subtler measure hid his woe. 

"Harsh be my lines," cried Arnaut, "harsh the woe 
My lady, that enthorn'd and cruel rose, 
Inflicts on him that made her live in rhyme!" 
But through the metre spake the voice of Love, 
And like a wild-wood nightingale he sang 
Who thought in crabbed lays to ease his heart. 

It is not told if her untoward heart 

Was melted by her poet's lyric woe. 

Or if in vain so amorously he sang; 

Perchance through cloud of dark conceits he rose 

To nobler heights of philosophic love. 

And crowned his later years with sterner rhyme. 

This thing alone we know: the triple rhyme 
Of him who bared his vast and passionate heart 
To all the crossing flames of hate and love. 
Wears in the midst of all its storm of woe, — 
As some loud morn of March may bear a rose, — 
The impress of a song that Arnaut sang. 
445 



446 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

"Smith of his mother-tongue," the Frenchman sang 
Of Lancelot and of Galahad, the rhyme 
That beat so bloodlike at its core of rose, 
It stirred the sweet Francesca's gentle heart 
To take that kiss that brought her so much woe 
And. sealed in fire her martyrdom of love. 

And Dante, full of her immortal love, 

Stayed his drear song, and softly, fondly sang 

As though his voice broke with that weight of woe ; 

And to this day we think of Arnaut's rhyme 

Whenever pity at the labouring heart 

On fair Francesca's memory drops the rose. 

Ah! sovereign Love, forgive this weaker rhyme! 
The men of old who sang were great at heart, 
Yet have we too known woe, and worn thy rose. 

Edmund Gosse 



THE CONQUEROR PASSES 

"Non dormatz plus! les messatg:es de douz pascor" 

— Raimbaut de Vaqueiras. 

Awaken! for the servitors of Spring 
Prnclain. his triumph! oh, make haste to see 
With what tempestuous pageantry they bring 
The victor homeward! haste, for this is he 
That cast out Winter, and all woes that cling 
To Winter's garments, and bade April be! 

And now that Spring is master, let us be 
Content, and laugh as anciently in spring 
The battle-wearied Tristan laughed, when he 
Was come again Tintagel-ward, to bring 
Glad news of Arthur's victory — and see 
Ysoude, with parted lips that waver and cling. 



SESTINAS U7 

Not yet in Brittany must Tristan cling 
To this or that sad memory, and be 
Alone, as she in Cornwall; for in spring 
Love sows against far harvestings, — and he 
Is blind, and scatters baleful seed that bring 
Such fruitage as blind Love lacks eyes to see. 

Love sows, but lovers reap; and ye will see 
The loved eyes lighten, feel the loved lips cling. 
Never again when in the grave ye be 
Incurious of your happiness in spring, 
And get no grace of Love there, whither he 
That bartered life for love no love may bring. 

No braggart Heracles avails to bring 
Alcestis hence; nor here may Roland see 
The eyes of Aude; nor here the wakening spring 
Vex any man with memories; for there be 
No memories that cling as cerements cling. 
No force that baffles Death, more strong than he. 

Us hath he noted, and for us hath he 
An hour appointed; and that hour will bring 
Oblivion. — Then laugh! Laugh, dear, and see 
The tyrant mocked, while yet our bosoms cling, 
While yet our lips obey us, and we be 
Untrammeled in our little hour of spring! 

Thus in the spring we jeer at Death, though he 
Will see our children perish, and will bring 
Asunder all that cling while love may be. 

James Branch Cabell 

RIZZIO'S LOVE-SONG 

Love with shut wings, a little ungrown love, 
A blind lost love, alit on my shut heart. 
As on an unblown rose an unfledged dove; 
Feeble the flight as yet, feeble the flower. 
And I said, show me if sleep or love thou art. 
Or death or sorrow or some obscurer power; 



448 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Show me thyself, if thou be some such power, 
If thou be god or spirit, sorrow or love, 
That I may praise thee for the thing thou art. 
And saying, 1 felt my soul a sudden flower 
Full-fledged of petals, and thereon a dove 
Sittirig^full-feathered, singing at my heart. 

Yet the song's burden heavier on my heart 
Than a man's burden laid on a child's power. 
Surely most bitter of all sweet things thou art, 
And sweetest thou of all things bitter, lovej 
And if a poppy or if a rose thy flower 
We know not, nor if thou be kite or dove. 

But nightingale is none nor any dove 

That sings so long nor is so hot of heart 

For love of sorrow or sorrow of any love; 

Nor all thy pain hath any or all thy power, 

Nor any knows thee if bird or god thou art, 

Or whether a thorn to think thee or whether a flower. 

But surely will I hold thee a glorious flower, 
And thy tongue surely sweeter than the dove 
Muttering in mid leaves from a fervent heart 
Something divine of some exceeding love, 
If thou being god out of a great god's power 
Wilt make me also the glad thing thou art. 

Will no man's mercy show me where thou art. 
That I may bring thee of all my fruit and flower. 
That with loud lips and with a molten heart 
I may sing all thy praises, till the dove 
That I desire to have within my power 
Fly at thy bidding to my bosom, love? 

Clothed as with power of pinions, O my heart. 
Fly like a dove, and seek one sovereign flower. 
Whose thrall thou art, and sing for love of love. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



SESTINAS 449 

THE COMPLAINT OF LISA 

(Double Sestina) 

Decameron, x. 7 

There is no woman living that draws breath 
So sad as I, though all things sadden her. 
There is not one upon life's weariest way 
Who is weary as I am weary of all but death. 
Toward whom I look as looks the sunflower 
All day with his whole soul toward the sun ; 
While in the sun's sight I make moan all day_ 
And all night on my sleepless maiden bed 
Weep and call out on death, O Love, and thee, 
That thou or he would take me to the dead. 
And know not what thing evil I have done 
That life should lay such heavy hand on me. 

Alas, Love, what is this thou wouldst with me? 
What honor shalt thou have to quench my breath, 
Or what shall my heart broken profit thee? 

Love, O great god Love, what have I done, 
That thou shouldst hunger so after my death? 
My heart is harmless as my life's first day: 
Seek out some false fair woman, and plague her 
Till her tears even as my tears fill her bed: 

1 am the least flower in thy flowery way. 
But till my time be come that I be dead 
Let me live out my flower-time in the sun 
Though my leaves shut before the sunflower. 

O Love, Love, Love, the kingly sunflower! 
Shall he the sun hath looked on look on me, 
That live down here in shade, out of the sun. 
Here living in the sorrow and shadow of death? 
Shall he that feeds his heart full of the day 
Care to give mine eyes light, or my lips breath? 
Because she loves him shall my lord love her 
Who is as a worm in my lord's kingly way? 



450 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

I shall not see him or know him alive or dead; 
But thou, I know thee, O Love, and pray to thee 
That in brief while my brief life-days be done, 
And the worm quickly make my marriage-bed. 

For underground there is no sleepless bed: 

But here since I beheld my sunflower 

These eyes have slept not, seeing all night and day 

His sunlike eyes, and face fronting the sun. 

Wherefore if anywhere be any death, 

I would fain find and fold him fast to me. 

That I may sleep with the world's eldest dead, 

With her that died seven centjjries since, and her 

That went last night down the night-wandering way. 

For this is sleep indeed, when labor is done. 

Without love, without dreams, and without breath, 

And without thought, O name unnamed! of thee. 

Ah, but, forgetting all things, shall I thee? 
Wilt thou not be as now about my bed, 
There underground as here before the sun? 
Shall not thy vision vex me alive and dead, 
Thy moving vision without form or breath? 
I read long since the bitter tale of her 
Who read the tale of Launcelot on a day, 
And died, and had no quiet after death, 
But was moved ever along a weary way, 
Lost with her love in the underworld; ah me, 
O my king, O my lordly sunflower, 
Would God to me too such a thing were done! 

But if such sweet and bitter things be done, 

Then, flying from life, I shall not fly from thee. 

For in that living world without a sun 

Thy vision will lay hold upon me dead. 

And meet and mock me, and mar my peace in death. 

Yet if being wroth God had such pity on her, 

Who was a sinner and foolish in her day. 

That even in hell they twain should breathe one breath, 

Why should he not in some wise pity me? 



SESTINAS 451 

So if I sleep not in my soft strait bed 

I may look up and see my sunflower 

As he the sun, in some divine strange way. 

poor my heart, well knowest thou in what way 
This sore sweet evil unto us was done. 

For on a holy and a heavy day 

1 was risen out of my still small bed 

To see the knights tilt, and one said to me 

'The king,' and seeing him, somewhat stopped my breath, 

And if the girl spake more, I heard not her. 

For only I saw what I shall see when dead, 

A kingly flower of knights, a sunflower. 

That shown against the sunlight like the sun, 

And like a fire, O heart, consuming thee. 

The fire of love that lights the pyre of death. 

Howbeit I shall not die an evil death 
Who have loved in such a sad and sinless way. 
That this my love, lord, was no shame to thee. 
So when mine eyes are shut against the sun, 
O my soul's sun, O the world's sunflower. 
Thou nor no man will quite despise me dead. 
And dying I pray with all my low last breath 
That thy whole life may be as was that day. 
That feast-day that made troth-plight death and me. 
Giving the world light of thy great deeds done; 
And that fair face brightening thy bridal bed. 
That God be good as God hath been to her. 

That all things goodly and glad remain with her, 
All things that make glad life and goodly death; 
That as a bee sucks from a sunflower 
Honey, when summer draws delighted breath, 
Her soul may drink of thy soul in like way, 
And love make life a fruitful marriage-bed 
Where day may bring forth fruits of joy to day 
And night to night till days and nights be dead. 



452 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

And as she gives light of her love to thee, 
Give thou to her the old glory of days long done; 
And either give some heat of light to me, 
To warm me where 1 sleep without the sun. 

O sunflower made drunken with the sun, 
O knight whose lady's heart draws thine to her, 
Great king, glad lover, I have a word to thee. 
There is a weed lives out of the sun's way, 
Hid from the heat deep in the meadow's bed. 
That swoons and whitens at the wind's least breath, 
A flower star-shaped, that all a summer day 
Will gaze her soul out on the sunflower 
For very love till twilight finds her dead. 
But the great sunflower heeds not her poor death, 
Knows not when all her loving life is done; 
And so much knows my lord the king of me. 

Aye, all day long he has no eye for me; 
With golden eye following the golden sun 
From rose-colored to purple-pillowed bed, 
From birthplace to the flame-lit place of death, 
From eastern end to western of his way. 
So mine eye follows thee, my sunflower, 
So the white star-flower turns and yearns to thee, 
The sick weak weed, not well alive or dead. 
Trod underfoot if any pass by her, 
Pale, without color of summer or summer breath 
In the shrunk shuddering petals, that have done 
No work but love, and die before the day. 

But thou, to-day, to-morrow, and every day, 
Be glad and great, O love whose love slays me. 
Thy fervent flower made fruitful from the sun 
Shall drop its golden seed in the world's way, 
That all men thereof nourished shall praise thee 
For grain and flower and fruit of works well done; 
Till thy shed seed, O shining sunflower. 
Bring forth such growth of the world's garden-bed 



SESTJNAS 453 

As like the sun shall outlive age and death, 
And yet I would thine heart had heed of her 
Who loves thee alive; but not till she be dead. 
Come, Love, then, quickly, and take her utmost breath. 

Song, speak for me who am dumb as are the dead; 
From my sad bed of tears I send forth thee, 
To fly all day from sun's birth to sun's death 
Down the sun's way after the flying sun. 
For love of her that gave thee wings and breath 
Ere day be done, to seek the sunflower. 

Algerno7i Charles Swinburne 

SESTINA 

I saw my soul at rest upon a day 

As the bird sleeping in the nest of night, 

Among soft leaves that give the starlight way 
To touch its wings but not its eyes with light; 

So that it knew as one in visions may. 
And knew not as men waking, of delight. 

This was the measure of my soul's delight; 

It had no power of joy to fly by day. 
Nor part in the large lordship of the light; 

But in a secret moon-beholden way 
Had all its will of dreams and pleasant night, 

And all the love and life that sleeper? may. 

But such life's triumph as men waking may 
It might not have to feed its faint delight 

Between the stars by night and sun by day 
Shut up with green leaves and a little light; 

Because its way was as a lost star's way. 

A world's not wholly known of day or night. 

All loves and dreams and sounds and gleams of night 
Made it all music that such minstrels may. 

And all they had they gave it of delight; 
But in the full face of the fire of day 



454- LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

What place shall be for any starry light, 

What part of heaven in all the wide sun's way? 

Yet the soul woke not, sleeping by the way. 

Watched as a nursling of the large-eyed night, 

And sought no strength nor knowledge of the day, 
Nor closer touch conclusive of delight, 

Nor mightier joy nor truer than dreamers may, 
Nor more of song than they, nor more of light. 

For who sleeps once and sees the secret light 
Whereby sleep shows the soul a fairer way 

Between the rise and rest of day and night. 
Shall care no more to fare as all men may, 

But be his place of pain or of delight. 

There shall he dwell, beholding night as day. 

Song, have thy day and take thy fill of light 
Before the night be fallen across thy way; 
Sing while he may, man hath no long delight. 
Algernon Charles Swinburne 



PULVIS ET UMBRA 

(A Sestina) 

Along the crowded streets I walk and think 
How I, a shadow, pace among the shades, 
For I and all men seem to me unreal: 
Foam that the seas of God which cover all 
Cast on the air a moment, shadows thrown 
In moving westward by the Moon of Death. 

Oh, shall it set at last, that orb of Death? 
May any morning follow? As I think. 
From one surmise upon another thrown. 
My very thoughts appear to me as shades — 
Shades, like the prisoning self that bounds them all, 
Shades, like the transient world, and as unreal. 



SESTINAS 45 5 

But other hours there be when I, unreal, 
When only I, vague in a conscious Death, 
Move through the mass of men unseen by all; 
I move along their ways, I feel and think, 
Yet am more light than echoes, or the shades 
That hide me, from their stronger bodies thrown. 

And better moments come, when, overthrown 
All round me, lie the ruins of the unreal 
And momentary world, as thin as shades; 
When I alone, triumphant over Death, 
Eternal, vast, fill with the thoughts I think, 
And with my single soul the frame of all. 

Ah, for a moment could I grasp it all! 

Ah, could but I (poor wrestler often thrown) 

Once grapple with the truth, oh then, I think, 

Assured of which is living, which unreal, 

I would not murmur, though among the shades 

My lot were cast, among the shades and Death. 

"One thing is true," I said, "and that is Death," 
And yet it may be God disproves it all ; 
And Death may be a passage from the shades. 
And films on our beclouded senses thrown; 
And Death may be a step beyond the Unreal 
Towards the Thought that answers all I think. 

In vain I think. O moon-like thought of Death, 
All is unreal beneath thee, uncertain all, 
Dim moon-ray thrown along a world of shades. 
A. Mary F. Robinson 



CUPID AND THE SHEPHERD 

(Sestina) 

One merry morn when all the earth was bright. 
And flushed with dewy dawn's encrimsoning ray, 



456 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

A shepherd youth, o'er whose fair face the light 
Of rosy smiles was ever wont to stray, 

Roamed through a level grassy mead, bedight 

With springtime blossoms, fragrant, fresh, and gay. 

But now, alas! his mood was far from gay; 

And musing how the dark world would be bright 
Could he but win his maiden's love, and stray 

With her forever, basking in its light. 
He saw afar, in morn's bright-beaming ray, 

A lissome boy with archer's arms bedight. 

The boy shot arrows at a tree bedight 

With red-winged songsters warbling sweet and gay 
Amid the leaves and blossoms blooming bright. 

He seemed an aimless, wandering waif astray. 
And so the shepherd caught him, stealing light. 

While from his eyes he flashed an angry ray. 

The fair boy plead until a kindly ray 

Shone o'er the shepherd's clouded brow, bedight 

With clustering locks, and he said, smiling gay, 
"I prithee promise, by thy face so bright, 

To ne'er again, where'er thou mayest stray. 

Slay the sweet birds that make so glad the light." 

While yet he spoke, from out those eyes a light 
Divine shot forth, before whose glowing ray 

The shepherd quailed, it was so wondrous bright; 
Then well he knew 'twas Cupid coy and gay, 

With all his arts and subtle wiles bedight. 

And knelt in homage lest the boy should stray. 

"Rise," said the God, "and ere thy footsteps stray, 
Know that within her eyes where beamed no light 

Of love for thee, I will implant a ray. 

She shall be thine with all her charms bedight." 

The shepherd kissed Love's hand, then bounded gay 
To gain his bliss, — and all the world was bright. 



SESTINAS 457 

When naught is bright to those that sadly stray, 

Ofttimes a single ray of Eros' light 
Will make all earth bedight with radiance gay. 

Clinton Scollard 



SESTINA OF YOUTH AND AGE 

My father died when I was all too young, 
And he too old, too crowded with his care, 
For me to know he knew my hot fierce hopes; 
Youth sees wide chasms between itself and Age — 
How could I think he, too, had lived my life? 
My dreams were all of war, and his of rest. 

And so he sleeps (please God), at last at rest. 
And, it may be, with soul refreshed, more young 
Than when he left me, for that other life — 
Free, for a while, at least, from that old Care, 
The hard, relentless torturer of his age, 
That cooled his youth, and bridled all his hopes. 

For now I know he had the longing hopes, 

The wild desires of youth, and all the rest 

Of my ambitions ere he came to age; 

He, too, was bold, when he was free and young — 

Had I but known that he could feel, and care! 

How could 1 know the secret of his life? 

In my own youth I see his early life 

So reckless, and so full of flaming hopes — 

I see him jubilant, without a care. 

The days too short, and grudging time for rest; 

He knew the wild delight of being young — 

Shall I, too, know the calmer joys of age? 

His words come back, to mind me of that age 
When, lovingly, he watched my broadening life — 
And, dreaming of the days when he was young. 
Smiled at my joys, and shared my fears and hopes. 



4-58 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

His words still live, for in my heart they rest, 
Too few not to be kept with jealous care! 

Ah, little did I know how he could care! 
That, in my youth, lay joys to comfort age! 
Not in this world, for him, was granted rest, 
But as "he lived, in me, a happier life. 
He prayed more earnestly to win my hopes 
Than ever for his own, when he was young! 

ENVOY 

He once was young; I too must fight with Care; 
He knew my hopes, and I must share his age; 
God grant my life be worthy, too, of rest! 

Gelett Burgess 



SESTINA OF THE TRAMP-ROYAL 

Speakin' in general, I 'ave tried 'em all. 
The 'appy roads that take you o'er the world. 
Speakin' in general, I 'ave found them good 
For such as cannot use one bed too long, 
But must get 'ence, the same as I 'ave done, 
An' go observin' matters till they die. 

What do it matter where or 'ow we die, 

So long as we've our 'ealth to watch it all — 

The different ways that different things are done, 

An' men an' women lovin' in this world — 

Takin' our chances as they come along. 

An' when they ain't, pretendin' they are good? 

In cash or credit — no, it ain't no good; 
You 'ave to 'ave the 'abit or you'd die. 
Unless you lived your life but one day long. 
Nor didn't prophesy nor fret at all. 
But drew your tucker some'ow from the world, 
An' never bothered what you might ha' done. 



S EST IN AS 459 

But, Gawd, what things are they I 'aven't done? 
I've turned my 'and to most, an' turned it good. 
In various situations round the world — 
For 'im that doth not work must surely die; 
But that's no reason man should labour all 
'Is life on one same shift; life's none so long. 

Therefore, from job to job I've moved along. 

Pay couldn't 'old me when my time was done, 

For something in my 'ead upset me all, 

Till I 'ad dropped whatever 'twas for good. 

An', out at sea, be'eld the dock-lights die. 

An' met my mate — the wind that tramps the world. 

It's like a book, I think, this bloomin' world, 
Which you can read and care for just so long. 
But presently you feel that you will die 
Unless you get the page you're readin' done, 
An' turn another — likely not so good; 
But what you're after is to turn 'em all. 

Gawd bless this world! Whatever she 'ath done— 
Excep' when awful long — I've found it good. 
So write, before I die, " 'E liked it all!" 

Rudyard Kifling 



V 



PARODIES AND BURLESQUES 



X 



A BALLADE OF BALLADE-MONGERS 

(After the manner of Master Frangois Villon of Paris) 

In Ballades things always contrive to get lost, 

And Echo is constantly asking where 
Are last year's roses and last year's frost? 

And where are the fashions we used to wear? 
And what is a "gentleman," and what is a "player"? 

Irrelevant questions I like to ask: 
Can you reap the tret as well as the tare? 

And who was the Man in the Iron Mask? 

What has become of the ring I tossed 

In the lap of my mistress false and fair? 
Her grave is green and her tombstone mossed; 

But who is to be the next Lord Mayor? 
And where is King William, of Leicester Square? 

And who has emptied my hunting flask? 
And who is possessed of Stella's hair? 

And who was the Man in the Iron Mask? 

And what became of the knee I crossed, 

And the rod, and the child they would not spare? 
And what will a dozen herring cost 

When herring are sold at three halfpence a pair? 
And what in the world is the Golden Stair? 

Did Diogenes die in a tub or cask. 
Like Clarence, for love of liquor there? 

And who was the Man in the Iron Mask? 



Poets, your readers have much to bear, 

For Ballade-making is no great task. 
If you do not remember, I don't much care 
Who was the man in the Iron Mask. 

Augustus M. Moore 
463 



464 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



THE PRODIGALS 

(Dedicated to Mr. Chaflin, M. P., and Mr. Richard Potver^ 
M. P.y and 222 who followed them) 

Ministers! you, most serious, 

Critics and statesmen of all degrees, 
Hearken awhile to the motion of us — 

Senators keen for the Epsom breeze! 

Nothing we ask of posts or fees; 
Worry us not with objections, pray! 

Lo, for the speaker's wig we seize — 
Give us, ah! give us the Derby Day. 

Scots most prudent, penurious! 

Irishmen busy as bumblebees! 
Hearken awhile to the motion of us — 

Senators keen for the Epsom breeze! 

For Sir Joseph's sake, and his owner's, please! 
(Solomon raced like fun, they say.) 

Lo, for we beg on our bended knees — 
Give us, ah! give us the Derby Day. 

Campbell — Asheton be generous! 

(But they voted such things were not the cheese.) 
Sullivan, hear us, magnanimous! 

(But Sullivan thought with their enemies.) 

And shortly they got both of help and ease, 
For a mad majority crowded to say 

"Debate we've drunk to the dregs and lees: 
Give us, ah! give us the Derby Day." , 

ENVOI 

Prince, most just was the motion of these, 
And many were seen by the dusty way, 

Shouting glad to the Epsom breeze 
Give us, ah! give us the Derby Day. 

Anon'jmous 



PARODIES AND BURLESQUES 465 

AUSTIN DOBSON 

Recites a Ballade by Way of Retort * 

("Anna's the name of names for me.") 

— W. E. Henley. 

"Anna"! Insipid and weak as gruel — 

"Anna"! As flat as last night's beer — 
Plain as a bed-post and stifi' as a newel, 

Surely there's nothing of glamour here! 

Names by the hundred enchant the ear, 
Stirring the heart with melodious claims; 

Arrogant, timid, impulsive, and dear — 
Rose, after all, is the name of names. 



Sally gleams like a laughing jewel, 

Bella's jovial, Maud's austere; 
Rachel's complacent, Lydia's cruel, 

Laura is classical, Fanny is queer. 

Peggy reminds one of rustic cheer, 
Lucy of lilies and lofty aims, 

Lola of fancies that shift and veer — 
Rose, after all, is the name of names. 



Sara's a fire for all men's fuel, 

Mary's a comfort for all men's fear, 

Helen's the smile that invites the duel, 
Chloe's the breath of a yesteryear, 
Margaret somehow invokes the tear, 

Lilith the thought of a thousand shames; 
Clara is cool as a lake and clear — 

Rose, after all, is the name of names. 



* From — and Other Poets, by Louis Untermeyer. Copyright 
1916, Henry Holt and Company, Publishers. 



466 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



ENVOY 

Hannah's for home and the 'woman's sphere'} 
Vivian's all for dances and games; 

Jylia's imperious, Kate is sincere — 
Rose (after all) is the Name of Names! 
Louis Untermeyer 



CONTRIBUTED BY MR. ANDREW LANG 

Unhappy is Bo-Peep, 

Her tears profusely flow, 
Because her precious sheep 

Have wandered to and fro, 

Have chosen far to go, 
For 'pastures new' inclined, 

(See Lycidas) — and lo! 
Their trils are still behind! 



How catch them while asleep? 

(I think Gaboriau 
For machinations deep 

Beats Conan Doyle and Co.) 

But none a hint bestow 
Save this, on how to find 

The flock she misses so — 
"Their tails are still behind!" 



This simple faith to keep 

Will mitigate her woe, 
She is not Joan, to leap 

To arms against the foe 

Or conjugate tvtttu; 
Nay, peacefully resigned 

She waits till time shall show 
Their tails are still behind! 



PARODIES AND BURLESQUES 467 

Bo-Peep, rejoice! Although 
Your sheep appear unkind, 

Rejoice at least to know 
Their tails are still behind! 

AntAony C. Deane 

TRIOLET AND BALLADE FROM "THE HEAVEN 
ABOVE STORYSENDE" 

Then up spoke the last and youngest leader of them, sweep- 
ing a viola d^amore that had but one string. His face was 
smooth and more asexual than an angel's and his thick hair 
shone like a tossing golden flame. Sang this one: 

"Goodness and beauty and truth . . . Where? Well, but 
only in song? . . . Honor, Nobility, Youth, Goodness and 
Beauty — and Truth — shrink from man's clutches. In sooth, 
no man can hold them for long. . . . Goodness and Beauty 
and Truth wear well. But only in song!" 

"A skeptical though neatly-joined triolet," smiled Ortnitz. 
"But you talk in riddles, my fine young poet, for all your 
cynically smooth generalities. Yet why should I desist? 
And for what, more specifically would you have me abandon 
my quest for truth, justice and those ultimates which are the 
pavement and the pillars of heaven?" 

Thus answered the minstrel: 

"I offer you more than earthly riches in coin that none 
but the poet pays: — Freedom from all the stings and itches 
of every trivial splutter and blaze; a cup of healing; a stirrup 
of praise; a mood to meet the challenge of pleasure; a lilt to 
the feet of dragging days — all in the heart of a minstrel's 
measure." 

Said Ortnitz: "That is much indeed to promise." 

But the youth continued: 

"I offer you more. I offer you riches where a sour world's 
grumbling never strays; where ripples a mirthful music which 
is an echo of man's first laughter that plays in various keys 
and secret ways. There still is a land of Light and Leisure 
(if you will pardon so mouldy a phrase) all in the heart of a 
minstrel's measure." 

Said Ortnitz: "A great deal, to be sure. At the same 



468 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

time — " His interjection was interrupted by the poet who 
pursued his rhapsody, crying: 

"I offer all that ever bewitches the mind of man from 
its yeas and nays. To the poet, immortal hemistiches; to 
the soldier, conquest crowned with bays; to the lover, the 
breath of -a^ thousand Mays; to the boy, a jingle of buried 
treasure; to the cheated and broken, a merciful haze. All in 
the heart of a minstrel's measure. 

"Master, I offer what never decays though all else wither. 
Master, what says your will to the magics that quicken and 
raise all in the heart of a minstrel's measure?" 

Louis Untermeyer 

BALLADE OF INCIPIENT LUNACY* 

Scene. — A Battalion "Orderly" Room in France during a 
period of "Rest." Runners arrive breathlessly from all direc- 
tions bearing illegible chits, and tear off in the same directions 
with illegible answers or no answers at all. Motor-bicycles 
snort up to the door, and arrogant dispatch-riders enter with 
enormous envelopes containing leagues of correspondence, 
orders, minutes, circulars, maps, signals, lists, schedules, sum- 
maries, and all sorts. The tables are stacked with papers; 
the floor is littered with papers; papers fly through the air. 
Two typewriters click with maddening insistence in a corner. 
A signaller "buzzes" tenaciously at the telephone, talking in a 
strange language, apparently to himself, as he never seems to 
be connected with anyone else. A stream of miscellaneous 
persons — quartermasters, chaplains, generals, batmen, D. A. D. 
O. S.'s, sergeant-majors, staff officers, buglers, Maires, officers 
just arriving, officers just going away, gas experts, bombing 
experts, interpreters, doctors — drifts in, wastes time, and 
drifts out again. 

Clerks scribble ceaselessly, rolls and nominal rolls, nominal 
lists and lists. By the time they have finished one list it is 
long out of date. Then they start the next. Everything 
happens at the same time; nobody has time to finish a sen- 
tence. Only a military mind with a very limited descriptive 

* From T/ie Bomber Gipsy, by A. P, Herbert. Copyright 
1920 by Alfred A. Knopf, Publisher, 



PARODIES AND BURLESQUES 469 

vocabulary and a chronic habit of self-deception, would call 
the place orderly. 

The Adjutant speaks hoarsely; while he speaks he writes, 
about something quite different. In the middle of each 
sentence his pipe goes out; at the end of each sentence he 
lights a match. He may or may not light his pipe; anyhow 
he speaks: — 

"Where is that list of Weslyans I made? 

And what are all those people on the stair? 
Is that my pencil? Well, they can't be paid. 

Tell the Marines we have no forms to spare. 

I cannot get these Ration States to square. 
The Brigadier is coming round, they say. 

The Colonel wants a man to cut his hair. 
I think I must be going mad to-day. 

"These silly questions! I shall tell Brigade 

This office is now closing for repair. 
They want to know what Mr. Johnstone weighed. 

And if the Armourer is dark or fair? 

I do not know; I cannot say I care. 
Tell that interpreter to go away. 

Where is my signal pad? I left it there. 
I think I must be going mad to-day. 

"Perhaps I should appear upon parade. 

Where is my pencil? Ring up Captain Aire. 
Say I regret our tools have been mislaid. 

These companies would make Sir Douglas swear. 

'A' is the worst. Oh, damn, is this the Maire? 
I'm sorry. Monsieur — je suis desole — 

But no one's pinched your miserable chair. 
I think I must be going mad to-day. 

ENVOI 

"Prince, I perceive what Cain's temptations were. 
And how attractive it must be to slay. 
O Lord, the General! This is hard to bear. 
I think I must be going mad to-day." 

A. P. Herbert 



470 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



BALLADE OF DOTTINESS 

A cow, delighted, blew her horn, 

The pines stopped pining and were gay, 
The^ weeping willows ceased to mourn, 

A donkey, thrilled, began to bray. 

The sun released a brilliant ray. 
The birds pronounced a benediction, 

As John and Helen kissed that day — 
Oh, for an end of dotty fiction! 

You laugh my parody to scorn? 

That I exaggerate, you say? 
Well, read "The Rose Without a Thorn" 

And you'll accept my roundelay. 

Especially when in dismay 
Spurned Julius cries his sore affliction, 

"Men are but things with which you play!"- 
Oh, for an end of dotty fiction! 

Dear Novelists, since I was born 

I've watched the fictional decay, 
And resolutely I have sworn 

A fictionist or two to slay. 

Ye second raters, run away 
Before you feel a tight constriction 

About your gizzards! (Kneel and pray!) 
Oh, for an end of dotty fiction! 



How can the publishers defray 
The punctuation bills? . , . "Conviction 

Faced Doyle. . . . He wept. ... I saw him 
sway. ..." 
Oh, for an end of dotty fiction! 

Edward Anthony 



PARODIES AND BURLESQUES 471 



THE BALLADE OF THE SUMMER-BOARDER 

Let all men living on earth take heed, 

For their own souls' sake, to a rhyme well meant; 
Writ so that he who runs may read — 

We are the folk that a-summering went. 

Who while the year was young were bent — 
Yea, bent on doing this self-same thing 

Which we have done unto some extent. 
This is the end of our summering. 

We are the folk who would fain be freed 

From wasteful burdens of rate and rent — 
From the vampire agents' ravening breed — 

We are the folk that a-summering went. 

We hied us forth when the summer was blent 
With the fresh faint sweetness of dying spring, 

A-seeking the meadows dew-besprent 
This is the end of our summering. 

For O the waiters that must be fee'd, 

And our meat-time neighbour, the travelling 
"gent;" 
And the youth next door with the ophicleide! 

We are the folk that a-summering went! 

Who from small bare rooms wherein we were pent. 
While birds their way to the southward wing, 

Come back, our money for no good spent — 
This is the end of our summering. 



ENVOY 

Citizens! list to our sore lament — 

While the landlord's hands to our raiment cling — 
We are the folk that a-summering went: 

This is the end of our summering. 

H. C. Bunner 



472 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

ON NEWPORT BEACH 

(Rondeau) 

On Newport beach there ran right merrily, 
In dainty navy blue clothed to the knee, 
Thence to the foot in white au natural, 
A little maid. Fair was she, truth to tell, 
As Oceanus' child Callirrhoe. 
In the soft sand lay one small shell, its wee 
Keen scallops tinct with faint hues, such as be 
In girlish cheeks. In some old storm it fell 
On Newport Beach. 

There was a bather of the species he, 
Who saw the little maid go toward the sea; 

Rushing to help her through the billowy swell, 
He set his sole upon the little shell. 
And heaped profanely phrased obloquy 

On Newport Beach. 

H. C. Bunner 

CULTURE IN THE SLUMS 
(Inscribed to an Intense Poet) 



"O crikey, Bill!" she ses to me, she ses. 

"Look sharp," ses she, "with them there sossiges. 
Yea! sharp with them there bags of mysteree! 
For lo!" she ses, "for lo! old pal," ses she, 

"I'm blooming peckish, neither more nor less." 

Was it not prime — I leave you all to guess 
How prime! — to have a jude in love's distress 
Come spooning round, and murmuring balmilee, 

"O crikey, Bill!" 



PARODIES AND BURLESQUES 473 

For in such lorty wise doth Love express 
His blooming views, and asks for your address, 
And makes it right, and does the gay and free 
I kissed her — I did so! And her and me 
Was pals. And if that ain't good business, 

O crikey. Bill! 

II. VILLANELLE 

Now ain't they utterly too-too 

(She ses, my Missus mine,* ses she), 
Them flymy little bits of Blue. 

Joe, just you kool 'em — nice and skew 

Upon our old meogginee, 
Now ain't they utterly too-too? 

They're better than a pot'n' a screw, 

They're equal to a Sunday spree, 
Them flymy little bits of Blue! 

Suppose I put 'em up the flue. 

And booze the profits, Joe? Not me. 
Now ain't they utterly too-too? 

I do the 'Igh Art fake, I do. 

Joe, I'm consummate; and I see 
Them flymy little bits of Blue. 

Which, Joe, is why I ses te you — 

Esthetic-like, and limp, and free — 
Now ain't they utterly too-too, 
Them flymy little bits of Blue? 

Ill, BALLADE 

I often does a quiet read 
At Booty Shelly's f poetry; 

* An adaptation of "Madonna mia." 
f Probably Botticelli. 



474 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

I thinks that Swinburne at a screec. 

Is really almost too-too fly; 

At Signor Vagna's * harmony 
I likes a merry little flutter; 

I've had at Pater many a shy; 
In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter. 

My mark's a tidy little feed, 
And 'Enry Irving's gallery, 

To see old 'Amlick do a bleed. 
And Ellen Terry on the die, 
Or Franky's ghostes at hi-spy,"!* 

And parties carried on a shutter,^ 
Them vulgar Coupeaus is my eye! 

In fact, my form's the Blc-omin' Utter. 

The Grosvenor's nuts — it is, indeed! 

I goes for 'Olman 'Unt like pie. 
It's equal to a friendly lead 

To see B. Jones's judes go by. 

Stanhope he makes me fit to cry. 
Whistler he makes me melt like butter. 

Strudwick he makes me flash my cly — 
In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter. 



I'm on for any Art that's 'Igh; 
I talks as quite as I can splutter; 

I keeps a Dado on the sly; 
In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter! 

W. E. Henley 

* Wag-ner(?). 

t This seems to be a reference to The Corsican Brothers. 

X Richard III.{}). 



PARODIES AND BURLESQUES 4-75 



VILLON'S STRAIGHT TIP TO ALL CROSS 
COVES 

"Tout aux tavernes et aux fiUes." 

Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack? 

Or fake the broads? or fig a nag? 
Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack? 

Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag? 

Suppose you duff? or nose and lag? 
Or get the straight, and land your pot? 

How do you melt the multy swag? 
Booze and the blowens cop the lot. 

Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack; 

Or moskeneer, or flash the drag; 
Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack; 

Pad with a slang, or chuck a fag; 

Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag; 
Rattle the tats, or mark the spot; 

You can not bank a single stag; 
Booze and the blowens cop the lot. 

Suppose you try a diff'erent tack, 

And on the square you flash your flag? 
At penny-a-lining make your whack. 

Or with the mummers mug and gag? 

For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag! 
At any graft, no matter what. 

Your merry goblins soon stravag: 
Booze and the blowens cop the lot. 

THE MORAL 

It's up the spout and Charley Wag 
With wipes and tickers and what not. 

Until the squeezer nips your scrag. 
Booze and the blowens cop the lot. 

W. E. Henley 



476 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



A BURLESQUE RONDO 

Cum tu, Lyd'ta, Telephi 

Cervicem roseam, cerea Telefhi. — Horace. Book I : Ode 1 3 

Cum tii, Lydia , . . You know the rest — 
Praising the waxen arms and breast 

Of Telephus you drove me mad. 

You made the sunniest moments sad, 
While tortures racked my heaving chest. 

Oh, I could see you softly dressed. 
Inciting him with amorous zest; 

And hear you whisper low, "My lad, 
Come to Lydia," 

Now you repent . . . Your arms protest 
That they have been too roughly pressed. 
Oh, gain your senses; leave the cad. 
And heed me as again I add: 
Awake! Love is no giddy jest. 
Come to! Lydia! 

Louis Untermeyer 



A RONDEAU OF REMORSE 

Unhappy, I observe the Ass, 
Who browses placidly on grass. 
Or bits of wood he will devour. 
While e'en the prickly thistle-flower 
Is spicing for his garden-sass. 

Last night that lovely golden mass 
She called a "rarebit" proved but brass; 
And life I gazed at through a sour 
Unhappy eye! 

And as this sleepless night I pass 
I learn that he who has, alas! 



PARODIES AND BURLESQUES 477 

An ass's judgment for his dower 
May lack the beast's digestive power. 
Oh, miserie! All flesh is grass! 
Unhappy l! 

Burges Johnson 

THE POET BETRAYED* 

Heinrich Heine and Clinton Scollard Construct a Rondeau 

Immortal eyes, why do they never die? 
They come between me and the cheerful sky 

And take the place of every sphinx-like star. 

They haunt me always, always; and they mar 
The comfort of my sleek tranquillity. 

In dreams you lean your cheek on mine and sigh; 
And all the old, caressing words float by. 
They haunt me always, always; yet they are 
Immortal lies. 

Oh, love of mine, half-queen, half -butterfly, 
Your tore my soul to hear its dying cry. 

And soiled my purpose with a deathless scar. 
Go then, my brokeij songs, go near and far 
And woman's love and her Inconstancy 
Immortalize. 

Louis Untermeyer 

THE PASSIONATE ESTHETE TO HIS LOVE * 



Andrew Lang and Oscar Wilde turn a Nursery Rhyme 
into a Rofideau Redouble. 

Curly-locks, Curly-locks, wilt thou be mine? 

Thou shall not wash dishes nor yet feed the swine, 

* From —and Other Poets, by Louis Untermeyer. Copyright 
1916, Henry Holt and Company, Publishers. 



478 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Bui sit on a cushion and. sew a fine seam. 
And feast u-pon strawberries, sugar and cream. 

Curly-locks, Curly-locks, brighten and beam 

Joyous assent with a rapturous sign; 
Hasten the Vision — quicken the Dream — 

Curly-locks, Curly-locks, wilt thou be mine? 

Curly-locks, Curly-locks; come, do not deem 

Thou needst not be mindful of sheep or of kine; 

Thou shalt not peel onions nor cook them in steam, 
Thou shalt not wash dishes nor yet feed the swine. 

Curly-locks, Curly-locks, thou shalt recline 
Languid and limp by a silvery stream; 

Thou shalt not grieve though the world is malign, 
But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam. 

Curly-locks, Curly-locks, oft as we dine 

I shall read verses of mine — ream upon ream; 

Whilst thou shalt applaud me with, "Ah, that is fine," 
And feast ufon strawberries, sugar and cream. 

Come, while the days are all laughter and shine; 

Come, while the nights a^js all silence and gleam: 
Youth is a goblet; Love is the wine; 

And Life is a lyric that has but one theme: 
^^Curly-locks — Curly-locks / " 

Louis Untermeyer 



PARODIES AND BURLESQUES 479 

BEHOLD THE DEEDS! 

(Chant Royal) 

[Being the Plaint of Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, Salesman 
of Fancy Notions, held in durance of his Landlady for a failure 
to connect on Saturday night.] 



I would that all men my hard case might know; 

How grievously I suffer for no sin: 
I, Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, for lo! 
I, of my landlady am locked in, 
For being short on this sad Saturday, 
Nor having shekels of silver wherewith to pay; 
She has turned and is departed with my key; 
Wherefore, not even as other boarders free, 

I sing (as prisoners to their dungeon stones 
When for ten days they expiate a spree) : 

Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! 



One night and one day have I wept my woe; 

Nor wot I when the morrow doth begin. 
If I shall have to write to Briggs & Co., 
To pray them to advance the requisite tin 
For ransom of their salesman, that he may 
Go forth as other boarders go alway — 

As those I hear now flocking from their tea, 
Led by the daughter of my landlady 

Piano-ward. This day for all my moans. 
Dry bread and water have been served me. 

Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! 



480 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 



III 



Miss Amabel Jones is musical, and so 

The heart of the young he-boarder doth win, 
Playitig "The Maiden's Prayer," adagio — 

That fetcheth him, as fetcheth the banco skin 
The innocent rustic. For my part, I pray: 
That Badarjewska maid may wait for aye 
Ere sits she with a lover, as did we 
Once sit together, Amabel! Can it be 

That all that arduous wooing not atones 
For Saturday shortness of trade dollars three? 

Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! 



IV 

Yea! she forgets the arm was wont to go 

Around her waist. She wears a buckle whose pin 
Galleth the crook of the young man's elbow; 

/ forget not, for I that youth have been. 
Smith was aforetime the Lothario gay. 
Yet once, I mind me. Smith was forced to stay 
Close in his room. Not calm, as I, was he; 
But his noise brought no pleasaunce, verily. 

Small ease he gat of playing on the bones, 
Or hammering on his stove-pipe, that I see. 

Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! 



Thou, for whose fear the figurative crow 
I eat, accursed be thou and all thy kin! 
Thee will I show up — yea, up will I show 

Thy too thick buckwheats, and thy tea too thin. 
Ay! here I dare thee, ready for the fray! 
Thou dost not "keep a first-class house," I say! 
It does not with the advertisements agree. 



PARODIES AND BURLESQUES 481 

Thou lodgest a Briton with a puggaree, 

And thou hast harboured Jacobses and Cohns, 

Also a Mulligan. Thus denounce I thee! 

Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! 



Boarders! the worst I have not told to ye: 
She hath stolen my trousers, that I may not flee 

Privily by the window. Hence these groans. 
There is no fleeing in a roie ie nuit. 

Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! 

H. C. Bunner 

CHANT ROYAL OF THE DEJECTED DIPSOMANIAC 
(To Hal Steed) 

Some fools keep ringing the dumb-waiter bell 

Just as I finish killing Uncle Ned; 

I wonder if they could have heard him yell? 

A moment since I cursed at them and said: 

"This is a pretty time to bring the ice!" 

— Old Uncle Ned! Two times of late, or thrice, 

I've thought of prodding him with something keen, 

But always Fate has seemed to intervene; 

Last night, for instance, I was in the mood. 

But I was far too drunken yestere'en — 

My way of life can end in nothing goad! 

At Mrs. Dumple's, last week, when I fell 

And spoiled her dinner party I was led 

Out to a cab; they saw I was not well 

And took me home and tucked me into bed. 

I should quit mingling hashish with my rice! 

I should give over singing "Three Blind Mice" 

At funerals! Why will I make a scene? 

Why should I feed my cousins Paris Green? 

I am increasingly misunderstood: 

When I am tactless, people think 'tis spleen. 

My way of life can end in nothing good. 



482 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Why should one cry that he is William Tell, 

Then flip a pippin from his hostess' head 

That none but he can see? Why should one dwell 

Upon the failings of the newly wed 

At wedding breakfasts? Can I not be Nice? 

I am^ so silly and so full of vice! 

Such prestidigitator tricks, I ween. 

As finding false teeth in a soup tureen 

Are not real humour; they are crass and crude, 

And cast suspicion on the host's cuisine: 

My way of life can end in nothing good. 

My wife and her best friend, a social swell, 
Zoo-ward I lured to see the cobras fed; — 
"We can't get home," I giggled, "for the El 
Is broken, Sarah — let's elope, instead!" 
I spoke of all she'd have to sacrifice, 
And she seemed yielding to me, once or twice, 
Until my wife broke in and said, "Eugene, 
Your finger nails are seldom really clean; — 
I'd loose poor Sarah's hand, Eugene, I would!" 
How weak and stupid I have always been! 
My way of life can end in nothing good. 

I drink and doze and wake and think of hell, 

My eyes are blear from all the tears I shed: 

I'm pitiably bald: I'm but a shell! 

I sobbed to-day, "I wish that I were dead!" 

I wish I could quit drugs and drink and dice. 

I wish I had not talked of chicken lice 

The Sunday that we entertained the Dean, 

Nor shouted to his wife that paraffin 

Would make her thin beard grow, nor played the food 

Was pennies and her face a slot machine: 

My way of life can end in nothing good. 

— That bell again. A voice: "Is your name Bryce? 
These goods is C. O. D. Send down the price!" 
"Bryce lives," I yell, "at Number Seventeen!" 
Bryce doesn't live there, but I feel so mean 



PARODIES AND BURLESQUES 483 

I laugh and lie; my tone is harsh and rude. 
— Uncle is gone! I'm phthisical and lean — 
My zvay of life can end in nothing good! 

Don Marquis 



THE SESTINA OF THE MINOR POET 

Critics have damned our calling, since the sun 
First rose to tip Achilles' spear with light: 

One wonders how the little that is done 
Ever survives even a summer night; 

And we — we wonder more than any one 
Why minor poets ever strive to write. 

What use is it to wonder? We must write 
Whether we will or no. Under the sun 

God keeps a little sacred flame alight 
E'en in the mind of this unable one, 

Though Critic Death ring down in dreamless night 
A curtain on so many things, undone, 

And many wasted hours and ill things done, — 
Not only in bright day, but in dark night, 

A meanness hidden from the genial sun; 
Wherefore 'tis always difficult to write 

And to God's mercy testify, when one 
Has been conspirator against the light. 

Poets, I think, do mostly love the light. 
And scrawl sestinas to the dying sun. 

When haply they have skill enough to write — 
Sighing to think how the sun-god is done 

To death by the returning wheel of night. . . . 
Yet night they woo as much as anyone. 

With every bawd and ruffler they are one. 
And little credit find they with the light 



484 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

When through the morning window streams the 
sun. . . . 

I fear me 'tis on water that they write: 
On soda water epics have been done 

More lasting than the lyrics overnight! 

Yet there is grace in sleep; and sometimes night 
May bring to solace some unhappy one 

Dreams sent by God to make, in darkness, light: 
With but a spark of hope, much may be done: 

And even poets may contrive to write 
Something to last a little in the Sun. 

There was a helpful humor in the Sun. 

And yet — how hard these verses were to write 

Will scarcely be believed by anyone! 

Norman Davey 

"HE COLLECTED HIS THOUGHTS" 

"He collected his thoughts," said the tome, 
A statement that left me perplexed, 

For there wasn't a thought in his dome. 

"He collected his thoughts," said the tome. 

How could he, with Nobody Home, 
As is perfectly plain from the text? 

"He collected his thoughts," said the tome, 
A statement that left me perplexed! 

Edward Anthony 

"SUCH STUFF AS DREAMS" 

Jenny kiss'd me in a dream; 

So did Elsie, Lucy, Cora, 
Bessie, Gwendolyn, Eupheme, 

Alice, Adelaide, and Dora. 
Say of honor I'm devoid, 

Say monogamy has missed me, 
But don't say to Dr. Freud 

Jenny kissed me. 

Franklin P. Adams 



PARODIES AND BURLESQUES 485 



NOCTURNE* 

I cannot read, I cannot rest; 

I only hear the mournful Muse. 
A wan moon staggers in the West, 
I cannot read, I cannot rest. . . . 
Below, a lonely feHne pest 

Makes the night loud with amorous views. 
I cannot read — I cannot rest! 

I only hear the mournful mews. 
Louis Untermeyer 

EPITAPH FOR A DESERVING LADY 

She never wrote a book, 

She wasn't literary. 
She» stayed an honest cook, 
She never wrote a book, 
Contented not to look 

Beyond the culinary. 
She never wrote a book! 

She wasn't literary! 

Edward Anthony 

* From — and Other Poets by Louis Untermeyer. Copyright 
1916, Henry Holt and Company, Publishers. 



ADAPTATIONS 



X 



RONDEL 

Francois Villon, 1460 

Good-bye! the tears are in vay eyes; 

Farewell, farewell, my prettiest; 

Farewell, of women born the best; 
Good-bye! the saddest of good-byes. 
Farewell! with many vows and sighs 

My sad heart leaves you to your rest; 
Farewell! the tears are in my eyes; 
Farewell! from you my miseries 

Are more than now may be confessed, 

And most by thee have I been blessed, 
Yea, and for thee have wasted sighs; 
Good-bye! the last of my good-byes. 

Andrew Lang 



SPRING 

Charles D'Orleans, 1391-1465 
The new-liveried year. — Sir Henry Wotton. 

The year has changed his mantle cold 
Of wind, of rain, of bitter air; 

And he goes clad in cloth of gold. 
Of laughing suns and season fair; 

No bird or beast of wood or wold 
But doth with cry or song declare 

The year lays down his mantle cold. 

All founts, all rivers, seaward rolled, 
489 



490 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

The pleasant summer livery wear, 
With silver studs on broidered vair; 
The world puts off its raiment old, 
The year lays down his mantle cold. 

Andrew Lang 

""■•v 

REGRETS * 

A Rondel 

You would not hear me speak; you never knew, 
Will never know, the eloquence unique 

It was my purpose to bestow on you; 
You would not hear me speak. 

Dear! it was no caprice, or idle freak: 
Perhaps I did not even mean to woo: 

My meaning was not very far to seek: 

I might have gained the end I had in view; 

I might have failed, since words are often weak; 
It never can be settled now: adieu! 

You would not hear me speak. 

7. K. Stefhen 

ARCADIANS CONFER IN EXILE * 

After Charles Garnier 

I 

So long ago it was! Nay, is it true 
In verity we passed a month or so 
In Arcady when life and love were new 
So long ago? 

The tide of time's indomitable flow, 
Augmenting, rears a drearier realm, whereto 
We twain are exiled. Yet ... I do not know . . . 
Now that a woman calls, whose eyes are blue, 

* This poem belongs in the division in which roundels are 
included. 



ADAPTATIONS 491 

Whose speech is gracious— strangely sweet and low 
She calls, and smiles as Stella used to do 
So long ago. 



I am not fit to follow; yet I pray 
Some mighty task be set me, to commit 
In her dear name, for trifles to essay 
I am not fit. 

Nay, I, unstable and bereft of wit — 
Even I! — return to my old love to-day, 
Whose bounty is so fond and infinite 
That I am heartened, and made strong, and may 
Not even falter in deserving it. 
If but for dread lest of such grace men say 
I am not fit. 



Time has changed naught in us; for now the dm 
And darkness of tempestuous years, that wrought 
So vainly, lift; and it is lightly seen 
Time has changed naught. 

Such knowledge of those brawling years I bought: 
TAe thing which shall be is that which has been. 
When heaven again surprises us, unsought. 
And life returns full circle; and we win 
Again to realms which with how little thought 
We ceded, and find loyalty wherein 
Time has changed naught. 

IV 

Sweetheart, I wait ; now, as in time gone by, 
Your suppliant, half-frightened, half-elate. 
Outside the trellised doors of Arcady, 
Sweetheart, I wait. 



49?, LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Again I glimpse its meadows — through a grate, 
Alas! — and streams and groves and cloudless sky; 
And cry to you to be compassionate, — 
Yea, as of old to Stella, now I cry 
To you that once were Stella; and my fate 
Attends, your piloting, for whose reply, 
Sweetheart, 1 wait. 

James Branch Cabell 

RONDEAU 

Jenny kissed me when we met. 
Jumping from the chair she sat in; 
Time, you thief, who love to get 

Sweets into your list, put thai in: 
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad. 

Say that health and wealth have missed me, 
Say I'm growing old, but add, 

Jenny kissed me! 

Leigh Hunt 

HIS MOTHER'S SERVICE TO OUR LADY 
{Francois Villon) 

Lady of Heaven and earth, and therewithal 

Crowned Empress of the nether clefts of Hell, — 

I, thy poor Christian, on thy name do call. 
Commending me to thee, with thee to dwell, 
Albeit in nought I be commendable. 

But all mine undeserving may not mar 

Such mercies as thy sovereign mercies are; 
Without the which (as true words testify) 

No soul can reach thy Heaven so fair and far. 
Even in this faith I choose to live and die. 

Unto thy Son say thou that I am His, 
And to me graceless make Him gracious. 

Sad Mary of Egypt lacked not of that bliss. 
Nor yet the sorrowful clerk Theophilus, 



ADAPTATIONS 493 

Whose bitter sins were set aside even thus 
Though to the Fiend his bounden service was. 
Oh, help me, lest in vain for me should pass 

(Sweet Virgin that shalt have no loss thereby!) 
The blessed Host and sacring of the Mass. 

Even in this faith I choose to live and die. 

A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old, 
I am, and nothing learn'd in letter-lore. 

Within my parish-cloister I behold 

A painted Heaven where harps and lutes adore, 
And eke an Hell whose damned folk seethe full sore: 

One bringeth fear, the other joy to me. 

That joy, great Goddess, make thou mine to be, — 
Thou of whom all must ask it even as I; 

And that which faith desires, that let it see. 
For in this faith I choose to live and die. 

O excellent Virgin Princess! thou didst bear 
King Jesus, the most excellent comforter. 

Who even of this our weakness craved a share 
And for our sake stooped to us from on high. 

Offering to death His young life sweet and fair. 

Such as He is. Our Lord, I Him declare, 
And in this faith I choose to live and die. 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti 



THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES 

(Franfois Villon) 

Tell me now in what hidden way is 

Lady Flora the lovely Roman? 
Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais, 

Neither of them the fairer woman? 

Where is Echo, beheld of no man. 
Only heard on river and mere, — 

She whose beauty was more than human? 
But where are the snows of yester-year? 



494 LYRIC FORMS FROM FRANCE 

Where's Heloise, the learned nun, 
For whose sake Abeillard, 1 ween, 

Lost manhood and put priesthood on? 

(From Love he won such dule and teen!) 
And where, I pray you, is the Queen 

Who. willed that Buridan should steer 

Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine? . 

But where are the snows of yester-year? 

White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies, 
With a voice like any mermaiden, — 

Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, 

And Ermengarde the lady of Maine, — 
And that good Joan whom Englishmen 

At Rouen doomed and burned her there, — 
Mother of God, where are they then? . . , 

But where are the snows of yester-year? 

Nay, never ask this week, fair lord. 
Where they are gone, nor yet this year. 

Except with this for an overword, — 

But where are the snows of yester-year? 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti 



I WONDER IN WHAT ISLE OF BLISS 

I wonder in what Isle of Bliss 

Apollo's music fills the air; 
In what green valley Artemis 

For young Endymion spreads the snare; 
Where Venus lingers debonair: 

The Wind has blown them all away — 
And Pan lies piping in his lair — 

Where are the Gods of Yesterday? 

Say where the great Semiramis 

Sleeps in a rose-red tomb; and where 

The precious dust of Caesar is. 
Or Cleopatra's yellow hair: 



ADAPTATIONS 495 

Where Alexander Do-and-Dare; 

The Wind has blown them all away — 
And Redbeard of the Iron Chair; 

Where are the Dreams of Yesterday? 

Where is the Queen of Herod's kiss, 

And Phyrne in her beauty bare; 
By what strange sea does Tomyris 

With Dido and Cassandra share 
Divine Proserpina's despair; 

The Wind has blown them all away — 
For what poor Ghost does Helen care? 

Where are the Girls of Yesterday? 

Alas for lovers! Pair by pair 

The Wind has blown them all away: 

The young and yare, the fond and fair: 
Where are the Snows of Yesterday? 

Justin Huntley McCarthy 



V 



INDEX OF TITLES IN THE ANTHOLOGY 



A Ballad at Parting . 

A Ballade of a Book-Re- 
viewer .... 

A Ballade of Ballade- 
Mongers .... 

A Ballade of Brides . 

A Ballade of Calypso . 

A Ballade of Death and 
Time .... 

A Ballade of Evolution 

A Ballade of Indignation . 

A Ballade of Irresolution . 

A Ballade of Kings . 

A Ballade of Midsummer . 

A Ballade of Midsummer . 

A Ballade of Old Sweet- 
hearts .... 

A Ballade of Roses . 

A Ballade of Spring's Unrest 

A Ballade of Suicide . 

A Ballade of the First Rain 

A Ballade of the Night 

A Ballad of Appeal . 

A Ballad of Bath 

A Ballad of Dreamland 

A Ballad of Frangois Villon 

A Ballad of Heroes . 

A Ballad of Heroes . 

A Ballad of Sark 

A Ballad to Queen Elizabeth 

A Burlesque Rondo 

A Complacent Rondeau Re- 
double .... 

Across the World I Speak 
to Thee . . . . 

A Daughter of the North . 



PAGE 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 162 

G. K. Chesterton . . .237 

Augustus M. Moore . .463 
T. A. Daly . . . .223 
Charles G. D. Roberts . . 216 

B. L. Taylor . . . .259 

Grant Allen . . . .227 

Carolyn Wells . . .120 

B. L. Taylor . . . .211 

Arthur Symons . . . 150 

Brander Matthews . . .184 

Clinton Scollard . . .187 

Richard Le Gallienne . . 215 
Justin Huntley McCarthy 210 

B. L. Taylor . . .181 

G. K. Chesterton . . . 247 
G. K. Chesterton . . . 175 
Margaret L. Woods . .168 
Algernon Charles Swinburne 147 
Algernon Charles Swinburne 167 
Algerno7z Charles Swinburne 208 
Algernon Charles Swinburne 132 
Austin Dobson . . .204 

A. Mary F. Robinson . 20 3 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 159 
Austin Dobson . . . 1 64 

Louis Untermeyer . . . 476 

Louis Untermeyer . . .391 

Edith M. Thomas . . .437 
Geleff Burgess . . . 389 

497 



498 INDEX OF TITLES IN THE ANTHOLOGY 









PAGE 


A Double Ballad of August Algernon Charles Swhiburne 265 


A Double Ballad of Good 






Counsel .... 


Algernon Charles Swinburne 268 


A Father Speaks 




Louis Untermeyer . 


350 


After Watteau 




Austin Dobson 


325 


A Garden Piepe 




Edmund Gosse 


335 


A Greek Gift 




Austin Dobson 


398 


A Greeting . 




Austin Dobson 


325 


A Huproar . 




Ernest Radford 


407 


A Kiss . 




Austin Dobson 


397 


Alas, For the Fleet Wings 






of Time .... 


Clinton Scollard . 


133 


All Lovely Things 


Christopher Morley 


342 


All Men Are Free 


Eliott Napier . 


369 


Alone in Arcady . 


Clinton Scollard . 


190 


A Man Must Live 


Charlotte Perkins Stetson 


369 


Among My Books 


Samuel Minturn Peck . 


357 


An American Girl 


Brander Matthews 


222 


An April Fool . 


Henry Cuyler Bunner . 


352 


A Pitcher of Mignonette . 


Henry Cuyler Bunner . 


395 


Apology .... 


Arthur Guiterman . 


401 


Arcadians Confer in Exile . 


James Branch Cabell 


490 


A Rondeau of Remorse . 


Burges Johnson 


476 


A Rose .... 


Arlo Bates 


400 


A Roundel .... 


Arthur Compton-Rickett 


382 


A Roundel of Rest 


Arthur Symons 


383 


A Snowflake in May . 


Clinton Scollard 


396 


Asphodel .... 


Graham R. Tomsoft 


193 


At a Breton Sea-Blessing . 


Margaret Lovell Andrews 


434 


A Tear .... 


Austin Dobson 


398 


At Home .... 


T. A. Daly . 


348 


At Peep of Dawn 


Clinton Scollard 


354 


At Sea 


Algernon Charles Swinburn 


i 377 


August ? : Hottest Day o 


f 




the Year .... 


Brander Matthews 


396 


Austin Dobson Recites a 






Ballade by Way of Retort Louts Untermeyer . 


465 


A Very Woful Ballade of 






the Art Critic . 


Andrew Lang 


240 


A Villanelle of Love . 


R. L. Megroz 


433 


"A Voice in the Scented 






Night" .... 


Austin Dobson 


416 


"Awake, Awake ! 


» 


Frank Dempster Sherman 


305 



INDEX OF TITLES IN THE ANTHOLOGY 499 



Babyhood .... 
Ballad Against the Enemies 

of France 
Ballad: Before My Book- 
shelves .... 
Ballade .... 

Ballade .... 

Ballade a Double Refrain . 
Ballad Against the Enemies 

of France 
Ballade by the Fire 
Ballade des Enfants Sans 

Souci .... 

Ballade des Pendus 
Ballade for the Laureate . 
Ballade of a Backslider . 
Ballade of a Garden . 
Ballade of Antique Dances . 
Ballade of Aspiration . 
Ballade of a Toyakuni 

Colour Print 
Ballade of August 
Ballade of Books Unbought 
Ballade of Broken Flutes . 
Ballade of Caution . 
Ballade of Christmas Ghosts 
Ballade of Crying for the 

Moon .... 
Ballade of Dead Actors 
Ballade of Dead Cities 
Ballade of Dead Ladies . 
Ballade of Dead Poets . 
Ballade of Dime Novels 
Ballade of Dottiness . 
Ballade of Dreams 
Ballade of Easter Dawn . 
Ballade of Farewell . 
Ballade of Fog in the Canon 
Ballade of Incipient Lunacy 
Ballade of June . 
Ballade of Ladies' Names 
Ballade of Midsummer Days 

and Nights 



Algernon Charles Swinburne 
Algernon Charles Swinburne 



PAGE 

374 



121 



Nelson Rich Tyerman . 


231 


W. E. Henley 


473 


Louis U ntertneyer . 


467 


Edwin Meade Robinson 


253 


Richard Le Gallienne 


122 


Edward Arlington Robinson 195 


0. E. Elton . 


142 


Andrew Lang 


127 


Andrew Lang 


138 


Edwin Meade Robinson 


224 


Arthur Reed Ropes 


207 


W. E. Henley 


154 


W. E. Henley 


180 


W. E. Henley 


155 


Patrick R. Chalmers 


186 


Christopher Morley . . 


235 


Edwin Arlington Robinson 


191 


Arthur Guiterman . 


229 


Andrew Lang 


170 


Patrick R. Chalmers 


244 


W. E. Henley 


149 


Andrew Lang 


144 


Andrew Lang 


128 


Clinton Scollard . 


151 


Arthur Guiterman . 


242 


Edward Anthony . 


470 


Rose E. Macaulay . 


194 


Edwin Meade Robinson 


176 


Briait Hooker 


295 


Gelett Burgess 


182 


A. P. Herbert 


469 


W. E. Henley 


179 


W. E. Henley 


220 


W. E. Henley 


254 



500 INDEX OF TITLES IN THE ANTHOLOGY 



Ballade of My Lady's Beauty 
Ballade of Old Laughter . 
Ballade of Old Plays . 
Ballade of Primitive Man 
Ballade of Schopenhauer's 

Philosophy 
Ballade of ''Solitude . 
Ballade of Spring 
Ballade of the Ancient 

Wheeze .... 
Ballade of the Caxton Head 
Ballade of the Cognoscenti 
Ballad; of the Dreamland 

Rose 

Ballade of the Forest in 

Summer .... 
Ballade of the Girton Girl 
Ballade of the Hanging 

Gardens of Babylon 
Ballade of the Journey's End 
Ballade of the Little Things 

That Count 
Ballade of the Lost Refrain 
Ballade of the Nightingale 
Ballade of the Oubliette . 
Ballade of the Pipesmoke 

Carry .... 
Ballade of the Real and 

Ideal .... 

Ballade of the Sea-Folk . 
Ballade of the Song of the 

Sea-Wind 
Ballade of the Southern 

Cross .... 

Ballade of the Tempting 

Book .... 

Ballade of the Things That 

Remain .... 
Ballade of the Unattainable 
Ballade of the Unchanging 

Beauty .... 
Ballade of Truisms . 
Ballade of Vain Hopes 



Joyce Kilmer . 
Richard Le Gallienne 
Andrew Lang 
Andrew Lang 


PAGE 

212 
. 249 

152 
. 228 


Franklin P. Adams 
William Black 
W. E. Henley 
Nate Salsbury and 

Newman Lev 
Lionel Johnson 
Gelett Burgess 


. 246 
192 

177 

y 248 
. 233 
. 198 


Brian Hooker 


. 209 


Patrick R. Chalmers 
Andrew Lang 


188 
221 


Richard Le Gallienne 
Lady Margaret Sackville 


217 
205 


Burges Johnson 
Christopher M or ley 
Archibald T. Strong . 
B. L. Taylor . 


226 
118 
137 
243 


B. L. Taylor . 


183 


Andrew Lang 
William Sharp 


258 
158 


William Sharp 


157 


Andrew Lang 


166 


T. A. Daly . 


237 


Richard Le Gallienne . 
Andrew Lang 


189 

234 


Richard Le Gallienne . 
W. E. Henley 
William Sharp 


156 
202 
196 



INDEX OF TITLES IN THE ANTHOLOGY 501 



Ballade of Windy Nights . 

Ballade of Wisdom and 
Folly .... 

Ballade of Women . 

Ballade of Women I Love 

Ballade of Youth and Age 

Ballade to Theocritus, In 
Winter 

Ballade to the Women 

Ballad of the Gibbet . 

Ballad of the Lords of Old 
Time .... 

Ballad of the Women of 
Paris .... 

Ballad Written for a Bride- 
groom 

"Before the Dawn" . 

Behold the Deeds 

Between the Lines 

Between the Showers . 

Beyond the Night 

Blind Love . 

By the Well 

Camelot .... 
Chant of the Changing 

Hours .... 
Chant Royal of August . 
Chant Royal of California . 
Chant Royal of the Dejected 

Dipsomaniac 
Chant Royal of the God of 

Love .... 

Chant Royal of the True 

Romance .... 

Circe 

Contributed by Mr. Andrew 

Lang .... 

Culture in the Slums . 
Cupid and the Shepherd 

Dead Poets .... 
Dear Reader 



Will H. Ogilvie . 


. 169 


Carolyn Wells 
Archibald T. Strong . 
Eugene Field . 
W. E. Henley 


. 25 7 
. 136 
. 219 
. 256 


Andreiv Lang 
T. A. Daly . 
Andrew Lang 


. 173 

225 

. 126 



Algernon Charles Swinburne 129 
Algernon Charles Swinburne 130 



Algernon Charles Swinburne 

Sajnuel Minturn Peck 

H. C. Bunner 

Ernest Radford 

Amy Levy 

Samuel Minturn Peck 

Grahai7i R. Tomson 

Edmund Gosse 

Andrew Lang 

Don Marquis 
Ethel Talbot . 
Gelett Burgess 

Don Marquis . 

]olin Payne . 

Gelett Burgess 
Austin Dobson 

Anthony C. Deane 
W. E. Henley 
Clinton Scollard 

Graham R. Tomson 
Ernest Radford 



131 
316 

479 
408 
382 
364 
40 3 
334 

355 

279 
284 
293 

481 

280 

291 
398 

466 
472 
455 

146 
406 



502 INDEX OF TITLES IN THE ANTHOLOGY 



Double Ballade of Life and 
Fate 

Double Ballade of the Noth- 
ingness of Things . 

Double Ballad of the Sing- 
ers of the Time. 



Earth Love . 

Epitaph for .a Deserving- 
Lady 
Epitaph in Ballade Form 
Etude Realiste 
Expectation . 



W. E. Henley 

W. E. Henley 

John Payne . 

John Drinkwater 

. Edward Anthony 

. Richard Aldington 

. Algernon Charles Swinburne 

. Edmund Gosse 



Fancies in Filigree 
Farewell, Farewell, Old Year 
"Farewell, Renown!" . 
Far Have You Come, My 

Lady, From the Town . 
First Sight .... 
Flower-Pieces 
Foot-Note for Idyls 
For a Birthday . 
For a Copy of Theocritius . 
For Me the Blithe Ballade . 
Fortunate Love 
"From Battle, Murder and 

Sudden Death, Good Lord 

Deliver Us" 
From Theodore de Banville 



James Branch Cabell . 
Clinton Scollard . 
Austin Dobson 

Robert Louis Stevenson . 

Edmund Gosse 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 

James Branch Cabell . 

Christopher Morley 

Austin Dobson 

Clinton Scollard 

Edmund Gosse 



John Moran . 
Arthur Reed Ropes 



Genoa . 

Grave Gallantry . 

Heartsease Country 
"He Collected His 

Thoughts" 
Her Spinning-Wheel 



His Mother's Service to Our 
Lady 



If I Were King . 
If I Were King . 



. Edward Anthony 
. Carolyn Wells 



Dante Gabriel Rossetti . 

W. E. Henley 

Justin Huntley McCarthy 



266 

269 

263 

318 

485 
123 
373 
333 

323 
17+ 
328 

310 
333 
376 
201 
349 
417 
117 
333 



199 

302 



Algernon Charles Swinburne 378 
James Branch Cabell . . 367 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 148 



484 
349 

492 

345 
345 



INDEX OF TITLES IN THE ANTHOLOGY 503 



If Love Could Last 
In After Days 
In Beechen Shade 
In Explanation 
In Flanders Fields 
"In Love's Disport" 
In the Grass 
In the Water 
In Thy Clear Eyes 
In Visionshire 
In Winter 
I Wonder in What Isle 
Bliss .... 

Jean-Frangois Millet . 



Louise Chandler Moulton 

Austin Dobson 

Graham R. Tomson 

Walter Learned 

John McCrae 

Walter Crane 

Edmund Gosse 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 

Arlo Bates .... 

Edwin Meade Robinson 

Louise Chandler Moulton 



of 



Graham. R. Tomson 



King Boreas . . Clinton Scollard 

"King Pandion, He Is Dead" Don Marquis 



PAGE 

3+1 
329 
357 
400 
370 
336 
334 
160 
340 
354 
171 



Justin Huntley McCarthy 494 



430 



288 
197 



Les Morts Vont Vite 


. Henry Cuyler Bunner 


.365 


Les Morts Vont Vite 


. Brander Matthews . 


366 


Les Roses Mortes 


. Graham R. Tomson 


396 


Lohengrin 


. Algernon Charles Swinburne 


381 


Love in a Mist . 


. Algernon Charles Swinburne 


377 


Love in London . 


. Justin Huntley McCarthy 


346 


Love Lies Bleeding 


. Algernon Charles Swinburne 


376 


Lovers' Quarrel . 


. Edmund Gosse 


335 


Love, Why So Long 


Away Clinton Scollard 


432 


Lugubrious Villanelle 


; of 




Platitudes 


. Louis Untermeyer . 


440 


Maiden Meditation 


. Carolyn Wells 


351 


Might Love Be Boug 


It . Arlo Bates .... 


339 


Mistletoe and Holly 


. T. A. Daly .... 


397 


Mors et Vita 


. Samuel Waddington 


384 


My Dead Dogs . 


. Rowland Thirlmere 


438 


My Love to Me . 


. W. E. Henley 


344 


Night 


. Arthur Reed Ropes 


302 


Nocturne 


. Louis Untermeyer . 


485 


Of Himself . 


. Graham R. Tomson 


403 


"0 Fons Bandusiae" 


. Austin Dobson 


327 



504 INDEX OF TITLES IN THE ANTHOLOGY 



O Honey of Hymettus Hill 

Old Year . ' . 

On a Fan That Belonged to 
the Marquise de Pompa- 
dour 

On a Nankin Plate 

"O Navis" . -^ . 

"On London Stones" 

On Newport Beach 

O Scorn Me Not . 

Out . . . 

O Winds That Wail 



Pan — A Villanelle 

Parable 

Past Days . 

"Persicos Odi" 

Philistia 

Princess Ballade 

Pulvis et Umbra 



Rain and Shine 

Ready for the Ride — 1795 

Regrets 

Rizzio's Love-Song 

Rondeau 

Rondeau 

Rondeau 

Rondeau 

Rondeau 

Rondeau 

Rondeau 

Rondeau 

Rondeau 

Rondeau 

Rondeau 

Rondeau 



Henry Cuyler Bunner 
Rose Macaulay 



Austin Dobson 
Austm Dobson 
Austin Dobson 
Austin Dobson 
Henry Cuyler Bunner 
Cosmo Monk/iouse 
Ernest Radford 
Arthur Comfton-Rickett 



PAGE 

315 
361 



la Baltimore 

la Boston . 

la New York . 

Rondeau a la Philadelphia . 

Rondeau : Oh, in My Dreams 
I Flew .... 

Rondeau Redouble 

Rondeau Redouble 

Rondeau Redouble 



Oscar Wilde . 

Arthur Guitertnan . 

Algernon Charles Simnburne 

Austin Dobson 

Andrew Lang 

Joyce Kilmer . 

A. Mary F. Robinson 

Brander Matthews . 

Henry Cuyler Bunner 

J. K. Stephen . 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 

Robert Bridges 

Robert Bridges 

Ernest Dowson 

Edmund Gosse 

W. E. Henley 

Leigh Hunt 

Annie Mat lie son 

John Payne 

Gareth Marsh Stanton 

Robert Grant . 

Robert Grant . 

Robert Grant . 

Robert Grant . 

Gelett Burgess 
Cosmo Monkhouse 
John Payne 
Graliam R. Toms on 



INDEX OF TITLES IN THE ANTHOLOGY 505 



Rondeaux of Cities 
Rondeaux of the Galleries 
Rondel 
Rondel 
Rondel 
Rondel 
Rondel 
Rondel 
Rondel 
Rondel 
Rondel 
Rondel 
Rondel for September 
Rondel of Perfect Friend- 
ship 

Rondels . . . . 

Ronsard Re-voices a Truism 
Rose-Leaves . . . . 
Roundels of the Year . 



Robert Grant . 

Andrew Lang 

Walter Crane 

Walter Crane 

Edmund Gosse 

W. E. Henley 

Andrew Lang 

Andrew Lang 

Justin Huntley McCarthy 

Chrhtoflier Morley 

John Payne 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 

Karle Wilson Baker 

Gelett Burgess 
George Moore 
James Branch Cabell 
Austin Dobson 
John Drinkwater . 



FACE 

346 
355 

305 
306 
318 
319 
301 
489 
306 
301 
304 
331 
316 

308 
314 
135 
397 
311 



Saint Valentine . 

Serenade Triolet . 

Sestina ..... 

Sestina 

Sestina of the Tramp Royal 

Sestina of Youth and Age . 

Since I Am Sworn to Live 
My Life 

Six Triolets 

Sleep 

Song . 

Song 

Spring 

Spring Voices 

Story of the Flowery King- 
dom . 

Straw in the Street 

Sub Rosa 

"Such Stuff as Dreams" 



Henry Cuyler Bunner . 

George Macdonald 

Edmund Gosse 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 

Rudyard Kipling . 

Gelett Burgess 

Robert Louis Stevenson . 
Ernest Radford 
Ada Louise Martin 
Adelaide Crafsey . 
George Macdonald 
Andrew Lang 
Ernest Radford 

James Branch Cabell 
Amy Levy 
Brander Matthews 
Franklin P. Adams 



353 
408 
445 
453 
458 
457 

309 
406 
362 
411 
408 
489 
407 

230 
383 
351 
484 



That New Year's Call . Henry Cuyler Bunner . 352 

The Ballade of Adaptation Brander Matthews . . 239 



506 INDEX OF TITLES IN THE ANTHOLOGY 



The Ballade of Fact and 
Fiction .... 

The Ballade of Lovelace . 

The Ballade of Prose and 
Rhyme .... 

The Ballade of. the Incom- 
petent Ballade-Monger . 

The Ballade of the Summer 
Boarder .... 

The Ballad of Dead Cities . 

The Ballad of Dead Ladies 

The Ballad of Imitation . 

The Ballad of Melicertes . 

The Ballad of the Thrush . 

The Chant of the Children 
of the Mist 

The Complaint of Lisa 

The Conqueror Passes 

The Dance of Death . 

The Destined Maid: A 
Prayer .... 

The Epitaph in Form of a 
Ballad .... 

The Flight of Nicolete 

The Gates of Horn 

The Gods Are Dead . 

The Hoidens 

The House on the Hill 

"The Loves of Every Day" 

The Marsh of Acheron 

The Moon . 

The New Epiphany 

The New Year . 

Theocritus 

Theodore de Banville 

The Old and the New 

The Optimist 

The Passionate Esthete to 
His Love . 

The Pixies . 

The Poet Betrayed 

The Poet's Prayer 

The Praise of Dionysus 



Br under Matthews 
George Moore 

Austin Dobson 

J. K. Stephen 

Henry Cuyler Bunner . 

Edmund Gosse 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti . 

Austin Dobson 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 

Austin Dobson 

Emily Pfeiffer 
Algernon Charles Swinburne 
James Branch Cabell 
Austin Dobson 

Richard Le Gallienne 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 
Grahatn R. Tomson 
Graham R. Tomson 
W. E. Henley 
James Branch Cabell 
Edwin Arlington Robinson 
Witter Bynner 
Graham. R. Tomson 
Arthur Reed Ropes 
Samuel Waddington 
Rose Macaulay 
Oscar Wilde . 
Edmund Gosse 
Brander Matthews 
Graharn R. Totnson 

Louis Untermeyer . 
Samuel Minturn Peck . 
Louis Untermeyer . 
J. K. Stephen . 
Edmund Gosse 



INDEX OF TITLES IN THE ANTHOLOGY 507 



The Prayer of Dryope . 

The Prodigals . 

The Prodigals . 

The Rondeau 

The Roundel 

The Sestina of the Minor 

Poet 

The Shelley Memorial 

The Triolet 

The Wanderer 

Thistle-Down 

Three Faces 

To Austin Dobson 

To Austin Dobson, After 

Himself 
To Catullus 
To Catullus. A Rondel 
To Daffodils 
To Death, Of His Lady 
To Hesperus 
To R. L. S. 
To Tamaris 
Transpontine 
Triolet 
Triolet 
Triolet 
Triolet 

Triolet 

Triolet 

Triolet, After Catullus 

Triolet of the Bibliophile 

Triolets After Moschus 

Triolet to Her Husband 

Tristan und Isolde 

Twilight 

Two Preludes 

Two Rondels 

Two Triolets 



FACE 

Clinton S collar d . . . 387 

Anonymous .... 46+ 

Austin Dobson . . ■ US 

Don Marquis . ■ 323 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 373 

Norman Davey . . .483 

Ernest Radford . . .405 

Don Marquis . - .395 

Austin Dobson . . ■ 307 
Louise Chandler Moulton 40 3 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 378 

Frank Dempster Sherman . 116 

Sir Owen Seaman . . ■ 330 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 379 

E. A. Mackintosh . . . 358 

Austin Dobson . . . 326 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti . . 367 

Graham R. Tomson . . 429 

Christopher Morley . .358 

Theo. Marzials . . .343 

Ernest Radford . . .406 

Robert Bridges . . .402 

Robert Bridges . . .402 

Walter Crane . . .409 

W. E. Henley . . .395 

George Macdonald . . 411 

Louis Untermeyer . . ■ 467 

Edmund Gosse . . .404 

Charles Sayle . . . .405 

Andrew Lang . . .404 

Andrew Lang . ■ .406 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 381 

. Christopher Morley . 308 

. Algernon Charles Swinburne 381 

. George Macdonald . ■ 317 

. Harrison Robertson . . 40 1 



Upon the Stair I See My 

Lady Stand 
Under the Apple-Tree 



Clinton Scollard 
Edmund Gosse 



303 
336 



508 INDEX OF TITLES IN THE ANTHOLOGY 



Under the Rose 






Samuel Minturn Peck . 


399 


"Urceus Exit" 






Austin Dobson 


398 


Variations 






W. E. Henley 


. 310 


Venice . 








Algernon Charles Swinburne 379 


Ventimiglia 








Algernon Charles Sivinburne 378 


Vestigia 








Arthur Symons 


410 


Villanelle 








Edmund Gosse 


. 415 


ViUanelle 








Edmund Gosse 


. 415 


Villanelle 








W. E. Henley 


. 420 


Villanelle 








W. E. Henley 


. 421 


Villanelle 








W. E. Henley 


. 473 


Villanelle 








Andrew Lang 


. 419 


Villanelle 








Andrew Lang 


. 420 


Villanelle 








Will H. Ogilvie . 


. 435 


Villanelle 








John Payne 


. 427 


Villanelle 








John Payne 


. 428 


Villanelle 








Garelh Marsh Statiton . 


. 433 


Villanelle of Acheron 




Ernest Dowson 


422 


Villanelle of City and Coun- 






try . . . 




Zoe Akins 


. 439 


Villanelle of His 


Lady's 






Treasures 




Ernest Dowson 


. 424 


Villanelle of Marguerites . 


Ernest Dowson 


. 422 


Villanelle of Sunset 




Ernest Dowson 


. 424 


Villanelle of the Poet' 


s Road 


Ernest Dowson 


. 423 


Villanelle to Helen 




Clinton Scollard . 


. 431 


Villanelle to the Daffodil . 


Clinton Scollard . 


. 430 


Villanelle, With Stevenson's 






Assistance 




Franklin P. Adams 


. 441 


Villon Quits France 




James Branch Cabell 


. 134 


Villon's Straight Tip 


to All 






Cross Coves 




W. E. Henley 


. 475 


"Violet" 




Cosmo Monkhouse 


. 356 


Vis Erotis . 




Clinton Scollard 


. 339 


"Vitas Hinni 


leo" 






Austin Dobson 


. 307 



We'll Walk the Woods No 

More .... Robert Louis Stevenson 

What Is To Come . . W. E. Henley 
"What Makes the World?" Walter Crane 
"When Burbadge Played" Austin Dobson 
"When Finis Comes" . . Austin Dobson 



309 
363 
337 
326 
330 



INDEX OF TITLES IN THE ANTHOLOGY 509 



"When I Saw You Last, 

Rose" .... Austin Dobson . . .417 

When Shakespeare Laughed Christopher Morley . . 359 

When the Brow of June . Emily Pfeijfer . . .436 
Where Are the Ships of 

Tyre .... Clinton Scollard . . .145 

With Fitzgerald's "Omar 

Khayyam" . . Gleeson White . . . 232 

"Without One Kiss" . . Charles G. D. Roberts . . 3 38 

With Pipe and Book . . Richard Le Gallienne . .360 

"With Pipe and Flute" . Austin Dobson . . .328 

With Strawberries . . W. E. Henley . . . 356 



x 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



A baby's eyes ere speech begin . 

A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink . 

A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled . 

A baby shines as bright .... 

Above the sea and sea-washed town we dwelt 

A cow, delighted, blew her horn 

Across the noisy street 

Across the world I speak to thee 

A cultured mind ! Before I speak . 

A dainty thing's the Villanelle . 

Against her breast I set my head and lay . 

Again the same strange might of eyes that saw 

Ah! leave the smoke, the wealth, the roar . 

Ah, Manon, say, why is it we 

Ah me, but it might have been . 

Ah, Postumus, my Postumus, the years are slipping 

Alas, for us no second spring . 

Albeit the Venice girls get praise . 

A little kiss when no one sees . 

"A little, passionately, not at all" . 

All Afric, winged with death and fire 

All bathed in pearl and amber light . 

All heaven, in every baby born . 

All lovely things conspire to greet . 

"All men are free and equal born" . 

All women born are so perverse . 

Along the crowded streets I walk and think 

A man must live! We justify . 

Among my books — what rest is there . 

Among the flowers of summer-time she stood 

An April Fool, I swear, is one . 

And lightly, like the flowers 

"Anna!" Insipid and weak as gruel . 

A pedigree! Ah, lovely jade . 

A pitcher of mignonette .... 

Apollo left the golden Muse 

511 



by 



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512 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



A poor cicala, piping shrill . 

A pot of gold ! O mistress fair . 

A pretty face ! O maid divine . 

A roundel is wrought as a ring or a star-bright sph^ 

Ask not if Love no passion knows 

A spirit came to my sad bed 

At daybreak, wlien the falcon claps his wings 

At home to-night, alone with Dot 

At peep of dawn the daffodil . 

At sixty years, when April's face 

At two years old the world he sees 

A voice in the scented night 

Awake, awake, nay, slumber not, nor sleep 

Awake, awake, O gracious heart . 

Awaken! for the servitors of spring 

A year ago were love and mirth . 

Banked in a serried drift, beside the sea . 
Because you passed, and now are not . 
Before the dawn begins to glow . 
Before the town had lost its wits . 
Behold, above the mountains there is light . 
Be it mine to peruse ..... 
Beneath the arches of the leaves I lie . 
Beside the stream and in the alder-shade . 
Between the Midnight and the Morn 
Between the moonlight and the fire . 
Between the showers I went my way . 
Beyond the night no withered rose . 
Bird of the bitter bright grey golden morn 
Books rule thy mind, so let it be . 
Brothers among men who after us shall live 
Brothers and men that shall after us be . 
Brown's for Lalage, Jones for Lelia . 
But once or twice we met, touched hands . 
By the pale marge of Acheron . 

"Captain, for what brave hire" . 

Chicken-skin, delicate, white 

Cigar lights! yer honour? Cigar lights . 

Cliff and downs and headlands which the forward-hasting 

Come hither, child ! and rest 

Critics have damned our calling, since the sun 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



51.^ 



Cum tu, Lydia . . . You know the rest . 
Curly-locks, Curly-locks, wilt thou be mine 

Darling, I am growing- old . 

Davus, I detest 

Dead and gone, the days we had together 
Dear, faithful beasts who went before 
Dear R. L. S., whose books each night 
Death, a light outshining life, bids heaven 
Death, of these do I make my moan . 
Down 'Ob'n, Sir? Circus, Bank, Bank 
Dreamers, drinkers, rebel youth . 

Easy is the triolet ..... 
Eight centuries unheeded by the West . 
"Embarqiions-nous !" I seem to go 



Fair islands of the silver fleece .... 

Fair Sou-Chong-Tee, by a shimmering brook . 

"Farewell and adieu" was the burden prevailing 

Farewell, Renown! Too fleeting flower . 

Far from the earth the deep-descended day 

Far have you come, my lady, from the town . 

Fate, out of the deep sea's gloom 

Fine violets! fresh violets! come buy . 

Fools may pine, and sots may swill . 

For brides v/ho grace these passing days 

For too much love 'tis soothly said . 

For you alone how shall I write . 

Fra Cruachan tae Aberdeen 

Friend of my soul, forever true . 

From the sunny climes of France 

Gaoler of the donjon deep . 

Gold or silver every day . 

Gone are the tales that once we read 

Goodbye! the tears are in my eyes . 

Goodness and beauty and truth . 

Had she divined how many virelais . 
Happy, my Life, the love you proffer 
Hark, how the surges dash . 
Have you learnt the sorrow of windy nights 



PAGE 

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514 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



"He collected his thoughts," said the tome 

Heed not the folk who sing or say . 

He is the despots' Despot. All must bide 

He lived in a cave by the seas 

He longs to steal a kiss of mine 

Here's a present for Rose . 

Her lips were 'So near . 

Her spinning-wheel she deftly guides 

He thinks not deep who hears the strain . 

High beyond the granite portal arched across 

His poisoned shafts, that fresh he dips 

Hope bowed his head in sleep . 

Hot hands that yearn to touch her flower-like face 



I am not ambitious at all . 

I am not fit to follow; yet I pray 

I cannot read, I cannot rest . 

I caught the changes of the year . 

Ices — Programmes — Lemonade 

If I should steal a little kiss 

If I were king — ah love, if I were king 

If I were king, my pipe should be premier 

If love could last, I'd spend my all . 

If Love should faint, and half decline 

If rest is sweet at shut of day . 

If she kissed it, who knows . 

If there should be a sound of song . 

If they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played 

If you never write verses yourself . 

I have not read a rotten page . 

I hid my heart in a nest of roses . 

I hold it truth with him who sweetly sings 

I intended an Ode 

I killed her? Ah, why do they cheer 

I love you dearly, O my sweet . 

I make my shroud, but no one knows 

Immortal eyes, why do they never die 

In after days when grasses high . 

In a vacant mood the phrase came to me 

In Ballades things always contrive to get Ic 

In beechen shade the hours are sweet 

In Camelot how grey and green . 

In dreams I crossed a barren land 



INDEX OF FIR^T LINES 



51D 



In fair Provence, the land of lute and rose 

In Flanders fields the poppies blow 

In London town men love and hate 

In love's disport, gay bubbles blown 

In the clatter of the train . 

In the light, in the shade 

In the mud of the Cambrian main 

In the School of Coquettes . 

In thy clear eyes, fairest, I see . 

In Visionshire the sky is blue 

I offer you more than earthly riches 

I often does a quiet read 

I saw a snowflake in the air 

I saw her shadow on the grass . 

I saw my soul at rest upon a day 

I sit enthroned 'mid icy wastes afar 

Isolde, in the story old . 

I study wise themes with rigid care 

It is enough to love you. Let me be 

I took her dainty eyes, as well . 

I waited on a mountain's midmost side 

I was very cold .... 

I will go hence, and seek her, my old Love 

I wonder if, sunning in Eden's vales 

I wonder in what Isle of Bliss . 

I would that all men my hard case might know 

Jenny kissed me in a dream . 
Jenny kissed me when we met 

Keeper of promises made in spring . 
King Philip had vaunted his claims . 
Kissing her hair I sat against her feet . 
Kiss me, sweetheart, the Spring is her 



Lady of Heaven and earth, and therewithal 

Last night in Memory's boughs aswing . 

Laughter and tears to you the gods once gave 

Les marts vont vtte! Ay, for a little space 

Les Marts vont ■vite: the dead go fast 

Let all men living on earth take heed 

Light love in a mist, by the midsummer moon misguided 

Like a queen enchanted who may not laugh or weep 



rAr.r. 
445 
370 
346 
336 
421 
. 409 
227 
398 
340 
354 
467 
473 
396 
410 
453 
288 
211 
257 
343 
424 
286 
408 
388 
248 
494 
479 

484 
492 

253 
164 

331 
304 

492 
435 
358 
365 
366 
471 
377 
167 



516 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Lilacs glow, and jasmines climb 

Little mistress mine, good-bye . 

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling 

Love, barken how the boughs o'erhead 

Love hath wept till he is blind . 

Love is a swallow .... 

Love lies blegxling in the bed whereover 

Love, out of the depth of things . 

Love that holdeth firm in fee . 

Love, why so long away 

Love with shut wings, a little ungrown love 

Man's very voice is stilled on Troas' shore 
May he fall in with beasts that scatter fire 
Men, brother men, that after us yet live 
Might love be bought, I were full fain 
Ministers! you, most serious 
'Mongst all immortals tardiest is their tread 
My brother, my Valerius, dearest head 
My day and night are in my lady's hand 
My days for singing and loving are over 
My father died when I was all too young 
My friend, from China to Peru . 
My Lady's Eyes Remembrance bring . 
My love to me is always kind . 
My rival Death is fashioned amorously 
Myrtilla thinks! be still, oh, breeze . 
My soul is sick of nightingale and rose 

Nay, tell me now in what strange air 
Never a horn sounds in Sherwood to-night 
New roads to fare, new toils to overthrow 
News! Good News! at the old year's end 
Not wise as cunning scholars are 
Now ain't they utterly too-too 
Now if there is one thing I hate 
Now, isn't it hot .... 
Now take your full of love and glee 
Now that the swallow again we see 
Now, when the street-pent airs blow stale 
Now who will thread the winding way 

O babbling Spring, than glass more clear 
O conquerors and heroes, say . 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



517 



"O crikey, Bill!" she ses to me, she ses 

O daffodil, flower saffron-gowned 

Of all the songs that dwell 

O fleet of foot as Artemis . 

O ghosts of Bygone Hours, that stand 

O Goat-foot God of Arcady 

O goddess sweet, give ear unto my prayer 

O happy sleep! that bear'st upon thy breast 

Oh ! flame of grass, shot upward from the earth 

Oh, gentle Lady of God's sea 

O honey of Hymettus Hill . 

Oh, that men would praise the Lord 

Oh, to go back to the days of June 

O jewel of the deep blue night 

O Master of the Old and New . 

O may he meet with dragons belching fire 

O mighty Queen, our Lady of the fire 

O most fair God! O Love both new and old 

One ballade more before we say good-night 

One merry morn when all the earth was bright 

One of these days, my lady whispereth . 

On every wind there comes the dolorous cry 

On London stones, I sometimes sigh . 

On Newport beach there ran right merrily . 

Onward the Nation marches, and in sight . 

O scorn me not, although my worth be slight 

O singer of Persephone 

O singer of the field and fold . 

O to be somewhere by the sea . 

Our son and heir grows like a tree 

Out of the dark, pure twilight, where the stream 

Out of the silence some one called my name 

O visions of salmon tremendous 

O winds that wail in sombre skies . 

O yellow flowers that Herrick sung . 

Perhaps I made a slight mistake . 
Philistia! Maids in muslin white 
Princes! — and you, most valorous 
Proud insolent June with burning lips . 
Prudence Mears hath an old blue plate 

Queen, thou art found in toiling — where the wheat 



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518 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Rhyme in a late disdainful age . 
Romance is dead, say some, and so, to-day . 
Rose kissed me to-day ..... 
Rose, round whose bed ..... 

St. Valentine!, well hast thou said 
Sea to sea that clasps and fosters Englan 
evermore ...... 

She has just "put her gown on" at Girton . 
She never wrote a book .... 

She's had a Vassar education 

Ship, to the roadstead rolled 

Since I am sworn to live my life 

Slowly I smoke and hug my knee 

So long ago it was! Nay, is it true . 

Some fools keep ringing the dumb waiter bell 

Some of the books that I would prize . 

Someone has lit the lamp and hung . 

Sometimes when I sit down at night 

Song wakes with every wakening year 

Speakin' in general, I 'ave tried 'em all . 

Spring at her height on a morn at prime 

Spring sits on her nest ..... 

Squire Adam had two wives, they say . 

Straw in the street where I pass to-day 

Strengthen, my Love, this castle of my heart 

Such mistletoe is hard to find 

Sudden I grew warmer . . 

Summer has seen decay .... 

Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack 
Sweetheart, I wait; now, as in time gone by 



Tell me now in what hidden way is . 

Thank Heaven, in these despondent days 

That New Year's Call — the thirty-first 

That she is dead breeds no uncouth despair 

The air is white with snow-flakes clinging 

The Ancient Wood is white and still . 

The big teetotum twirls 

The Books I cannot hope to buy • 

The clouds are thick and darkly lower 

The dust of Carthage and the dust . 

The far green westward heavens are bland 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



519 



The fierce queen wearied, and she smote her hands 

The frost hath spread a shining net . 

The furrow's long behind my plow . 

The gallows in my garden, people say . 

The Gates of Horn are dull of hue . 

The gaunt trees black and naked stand 

The gods are dead? Perhaps they are! Who kr 

The heat wave sweeps along the street 

The Hours passed by, a fleet confused crowd 

The hungry north wind whines . 

The lilacs are in bloom .... 

The loaded sheaves are harvested 

The loud black flight of the storm diverges 

The loveliness of water, its faery ways . 

The Mistletoe is gemmed with pearls . 

The moon with all her tricksy ways . 

The Muses love me and I am content 

The native drama's sick and dying . 

Theocritus, who bore ..... 

The old sea-ways send up their tide . 

The Old Year goes down-hill so slow 

The poets, extolling the graces . 

There are moons of all quarters and kinds 

The Rebel of eighty years ago . 

There comes no voice from thee, O Lord . 

There is no woman living that draws breath 

There's a noise of coming, going 

There's a tear in her eye .... 

The roses are dead ..... 

The rose still blooms within the dipt parterre 

The sky and sea glared hard and bright and blank 

The sea is awake, and the sound of the song of the j 

her waking is rolled . 
The sea on the beach ..... 
These children, oftener barefoot wayfaring 
The ships go down to take the sea . 
The sky is blue with summer and the sun . 
The spring is passing through the land 
The thrush's singing days are fled . 
The ways of death are soothing and serene 
The world has cast her habiting . 
The world is so full of a number of thmgs 
They are all gone away .... 



oy of 



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520 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



The year has changed his mantle cold 
The year is lapsing into time . 
This book of hours Love wrought . 
This kiss upon your fan I press . 
Thistle-down is a woman's love . 
Those far, fair lands our feet have trod 
Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride 
Time has changed naught in usj for now the din 
To buy my book — if you will be so kind . 

To kiss a fan 

'Twas a Jacqueminot rose .... 
Two lonely lovers, young and lovely, stray 

Underneath this tablet rest . 
Under the rows of gas-jets bright 
Unhappy, I observe the Ass 
Unhappy is Bo-Peep .... 
Up in the woodland where Spring 
Upon the stair I see my lady stand . 

Villanelle, why art thou mute . 
Violet, delicate, sweet .... 

Was I a Samurai renowned 

We bless the coming of the Night . 

We hang to-morrow, then? That doom is fit 

We know not yet what life shall be . 

We'll to the woods and gather may . 

We'll walk the woods no more . 

What is it makes it a Hat . 

What is the song that the sea-wind sings 

What is to come we know not. But we k 

What likeness may define, and stray not 

What of this prayer which myriad skies 

What makes the world. Sweetheart, reply 

What more? Where is the third Calixt 

When Burbadge played, the stage was bare 

When Fitiis comes, the Book we close . 

When first we met the nether world was white 

When first we met we did not guess . 

When flower-time comes and all the woods are gay 

When I look back, as daylight closes 

When in the parlor car we speed 

When I saw you last, Rose . 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



521 



PAGE 

When Love is once dead . . . . . .410 

When on the mid sea of the night 317 

When Shakespeare laughed, the fun began .... 359 
When the brow of June is crowned by the rose . . . 436 
When the Morning broke before us . . . 206 

When the roads are heavy with mire and rut . . 260 

When these Old Plays were new, the King . . . .152 
When time upon the wing . . . .306 

When Venus saw Ascanius sleep . . . .210 

When you are very old and I am gone . . . .135 

Where are the cities of the plain 143 

Where are the creatures of the deep 158 

Where are the mighty kings of yore 150 

Where are the passions they essayed . . . . .149 
Where be they that once would sing . . . . .146 

Where is that list of Weslyans I made 469 

Where, prithee, are thy comrades bold . . . .133 
Where the waves of burning cloud are rolled . . . 209 
Where wide the forest boughs are spread . . .127 

Who is it that weeps for the last year's flowers . . .215 
Who wins my hand must do these three things well . . 389 
Why are our songs like the moan of the main . . . 263 
Why is the moon . .408 

Why not, my Soul? Why not fare forth and fly. . 366 
Wilt thou have words, when silence deep . . . .3 38 
Wine and woman and song ....... 424 

Wishful to add to my mental power 246 

With a ripple of leaves and a tinkle of streams . . . 254 

Without one kiss she's gone away 3 38 

With Pipe and Book at close of day 360 

With pipe and flute the rustic Pan 328 

With plash of the light oars swiftly plying . . .207 

With strawberries we filled a tray 356 

Wouldst thou not be content to die 415 

Ye little Rhyme I swore last night 324 

Yet at least with the rose 400 

Your rondeau's tale must still be light . . . .323 

Your triolet should glimmer 395 

You shun me, Chloe, wild and shy 307 

You that climb the trails of air 229 

You thought it was a falling leaf we heard . . .316 
You would not hear me speak; you never knew . . 490 



V 



REFRAINS OF BALLADES AND CHANTS 
ROYAL 



A frank and free young Yankee maiden 

Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago 

Ah! woe is me for all these things . 

Alas, for the fleet wings of Time . 

All in the heart of a minstrel's measure 

Along the mead of Asphodel 

And bid at last a long farewell to all 

And deathless praises to the vine-god sing 

And feed my brain with better things . 

And hopes of harvest kindle in the corn 

And show the little things that count . 

And where are the galleons of Spain . 

And who was the Man in the Iron Mask 

Anna's the name of names for me 

Another redskin bit the dust 

A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose 

As one by one the phantoms go . 

A storm is coming on the Chiltern Hills 

At every turn on every way 

At least they might follow the rules . 

A travelling salesman came to an inn . 



Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones 

Behold! the gentle sun is shining 

Booze and the blowens cop the lot 

But, ah me, for the Moon that I cry for 

But her forte's to evaluate ir 

But I hope I have kept to the rules . 

But pray God pardon us out of His Grace 

But pray to God that all we be forgiven 

But pray to God that he forgive us all 

But where are the snows of yester-year 



Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face 
Deep in the forest sings the nightingale . 

523 



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479 
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475 
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524 REFRAINS OF BALLADES AND CHANTS ROYAL 



Don't forget the parachute .... 
Do you know the sorrow of nights like these 
Dust in dust are the bones of kings . 

Even in this faith I choose to live and die 
Even with the good knight Charlemain . 

Fairies abound all the time, everywhere . 

Farewell, farewell, old year 

Fate's a fiddler. Life's a dance . 

Folly's the fairest thing on earth 

For God will have it so . 

For Love is a liar we love to trust 

For me the blithe ballade . 

For the Fates are captious girls 

For these things occur in the Flowery Land 

From battle, murder and sudden death 

Gissing's "By the Ionian Sea" . 

Give me the philtre of thy lips . 

Give us — ah! give us — but Yesterday 

Give us, ah ! give us the Derby Day . 

Go forth and welcome the eternal king . 

Good luck has he that deals with none . 

Great literature is with us year on year . 

Her central fires make one vast flame 

Here the limitless north-eastern, there the strait south 

western sea .... 
Ho, for the pack and the trail . 
How many pranks we played when we were young 

I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold 

I am the man to write a play . 

If it could be always May . 

I hear the pattering of the rain . 

I loved you once in old Japan . 

In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter 

In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets 

In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows 

In the green Ogygian Isle secure 

Into the night go one and all . 

I think I must be going mad to-day 



PAGE 

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REFRAINS OF BALLADES AND CHANTS ROYAL 525 



I think I will not hang myself to-day . 

It's summer noo in a' the hills .... 

King Pandion, he is dead 

Life so sweet as this that dies and casts off death 
Life yearns for solace toward the sea . 
Lo, I am Youth J I bid thee follow me . 

Make ready for the Brotherhood of Man . 
Midsummer days! Midsummer days . 
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights 
My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs 
My shadow on a moonlight night . 
My way of life can end in nothing good . 

Nay, but where is the last year's snow 
'Neath other skies, 'mid stranger men 
No lady is so fair as mine . 
Now all your victories are in vain 

O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze 

Of "Resurrexit Dominus" 

Oh, for an end of dotty fiction . 

O lovely lyrical lost refrain 

Omar! the peace you sought we find in you 

One to write their songs 

Only our dreams are true . 

Only the song of a secret bird . 

On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea 

Or the rose-bright tales of Boccaccio 

O sweet wild creatures of the sea 

O to be somewhere by the sea . 

O Vanity of Vanities . 

Over the hills and far away 

Romance is dead, say some 5 but I say No 
Rose, after all, is the name of names . 

Send me a maiden meet for love, I pray . 
Sigh in the silence of the midnight hour . 
Sing on, sing on, O Thrush 
Songs and singers are out of date 



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526 REFRAINS OF BALLADES AND CHANTS ROYAL 



Souls of Poets dead and gone 

So very lightly, Love runs into debt . 

Strike out from the shore as the heart in 

seeches, athirst for the foam 
Sweet water from the well of song- . 



us bids an 



Take up" the pen, my friend, and write 

Tempt not the tyrant sea . 

That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too 

The best you get is an even break 

The Books that never can be mine . 

The broken flutes of Arcady 

The cool, white wind of healing from the sea 

The deeds you wrought are not in vain 

The fair white feet of Nicolete . 

The famous Sign of the Caxton Head 

The fog's dumb army up the caiion goes 

The ghosts we all can raise at will . 

Their tails are still behind . 

The last is gone, since Banville too is dead 

The laughter was the best of all 

The master's yonder in the Isle . 

The moon goes silently upon her way . 

Then hey! — for the ripple of laughing rhyr 

The Oxford Book of English Verse . 

The Pixies are abroad to-night . 

There is no King more terrible than Death 

There is place and enough for the pains of prose 

There shall be hanging gardens for my queen 

There's no good girl's lip out of Paris . 

These are a type of the world of Age 

These are the loves of every day . 

These are the things that Love is not . 

These do I love, and these alone 

The sunless marsh of Acheron . 

— They take no thought. Your pity on them all 

This is King Louis' orchard close 

This is the end for which we twain are met 

This is the end of our summering . 

This vintage shall the old world's youth renew 

This was a people that had lost its king . 

This was the Pompadour's fan . 

Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee 



d be 



REFRAINS OF BALLADES AND CHANTS ROYAL 527 



Through the portals of horn 

Thrust them through the Little Door 

'Tis the symphony of Spring . 

To be continued in our next 

To edify austere Persephone 

'Tvvas the manner of Primitive Man . 

Under the wintry skies to marry . 

Vain hopes are all we have to sell 

Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name 

We are alone in Arcady .... 

We are the folk that a-summering went 

We come and go — these things remain 

We'd rather be alive than not . 

We'll toast the brides of other Junes 

We sing the plain "women," God bless them 

When these Old Plays were new 

When Venus kissed white roses red 

Where are the cities of old time . 

Where are the cities of old time . 

Where are the Gods of Yesterday 

Where are the ships of Tyre 

Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea 

While the weakliest go to the wall 

Who could wish evil to the realm of France 

Who could wish evil to the state of France 

Why do we always wait for Death and Time 

Wisdom's the goodliest gain for me . 

With Sir Love among the roses . 

Woman, my friend, is ware of Paris 

Woman's place is in the Home . 

Ye come through the Ivory Gate 
Ye Islands of the Southern Cross 
Youth is the sign of them one and all 



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